Here, Beneath My Lungs
by The Brat Prince
Summary: A series of collected Kendall/James oneshots. Fluff, angst, humor. Everything, basically.
1. Your Love Is A Melody

**Here, Beneath My Lungs**

_I: Your Love Is A Melody_

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: Okay. This is not a new...story, as it were. This is going to be a series of collected Kendall/James oneshots. I've written over ten small little oneshots over at LJ or on AO3 that I never posted here because they're less than 2k. My experiment here is going to be posting them all together as one story. Each, um, chapter will have nothing to do with the next- they're all self contained little worlds. Some will be happy. Some will be tragically sad. Some will be more than 2k. Some will be less than 1k. I'm going to mark the story "complete" when I've posted all of my current oneshots- BUT that doesn't mean that I won't come back and update later, in the event that I write more oneshots. Whether or not I will continue to post them here kind of depends on the response I get. So. Um. This collection is named for lyrics from the song Welcome Home, Son by Radical Face. About this specific story- the title is from Your Love Is A Song by Switchfoot. It has baby boybanders.

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><p>James is seven the first time he hears Kendall sing.<p>

They've been friends for two years, and James knows _a lot_ of things about Kendall.

He knows he likes to eat and drink weird things together; stuff James's mom says aren't good for you when they mix. Like milk and pineapple or olives or- well. Kendall will drink milk with _anything_.

He knows that he's the bravest kid in the neighborhood, and the only one who doesn't scream when they tell ghost stories at summer camp.

And he knows that Kendall makes a big show about how much he hates his baby sister, because she takes away all of his mom's attention. But secretly, Kendall's a really good big brother, when his mom's not looking, and it kind of makes James wish his parents still liked each other enough to procreate.

(That's the word Logan uses when he talks about where babies come from. James thinks it's another word for the cabbage patch. Which he went looking for, once, but he's pretty sure it's not in Minnesota. He's not really all that sure what cabbage actually looks like when it isn't cooked, 'cause cabbage is yucky. He doesn't tell Mrs. Knight that when she makes it though. Usually he just slips it over to Carlos, who will eat anything on the plate in front of him. Mrs. Knight's cooking is amazing, but sometimes the stuff she cooks makes him glad his mom always buys takeout.)

Anyway, James knows all of that stuff about Kendall, but what he never ever knew is that Kendall can't sing. At all.

He's really, _really_ horrible.

James winces and backs away from the shower door, because even though he has to pee real bad, he doesn't want to do it while Kendall's butchering a country song. James is almost positive that it's illegal to be that off key. He didn't know anyone _could_ be that off key.

Of course, he can't let it stand.

James has been singing since before he could even make real words, at least that's what his mom says. He used to babble with rhythm.

Once he was old enough, his mom booked him lessons with a real vocal coach, and he got even better. Now he's in the school choir. He tried to get Kendall to join, but he said no.

…It kind of makes sense now.

James doesn't want a best friend who can't sing. Carlos and Logan aren't amazing, but they can hold up a rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star if need be. They're not mortifying; not like Kendall.

And quitting his friendship with Kendall? Yeah, that's not an option.

So James traps Kendall after hockey practice one day and says, "So the first thing you need to do is stretch your vocal chords."

Kendall blinks at him. And then he says, "Okay? What're you talking about?"

"I'm going to teach you how to sing."

"Yeah, no," Kendall says, "Singing is stupid."

"It is not."

"Is too."

"Is not."

"Is too."

"Is not-" James protests, and then before Kendall can reply, he says, "Please? I joined hockey just for you."

"You joined hockey because your dad made you. 'Cause he called you a little girl."

"That _is not_ the reason. It was 'cause you said the team would die without an awesome player like me," he jabs himself in the chest, and ow, that kind of hurt.

"If you say so," Kendall looks like he's trying not to laugh.

"I do. So now you're going to return the favor and learn how to carry a tune."

"How do you know I can't?"

James shudders in remembrance.

"Trust me. You can't."

James spends a week teaching Kendall how to do scales, and then realizes that yeah, they need to bring in the big guns. He drags him to see his vocal coach on a Saturday afternoon, when Kendall wants to go to the rink and practice backhand shots instead.

His vocal coach is a white haired woman with kind blue eyes. She used to be some big shot singer in like, the eighteen fifties or something, but now she only teaches the _gifted_. That's what his mom says.

James likes being gifted. His mom likes telling people he is.

"Jamie," his coach says when he pushes in the door without knocking. She's in the middle of a lesson with someone else, but James doesn't bother getting embarrassed. He's her favorite, and they both know it.

"Jamie?" Kendall mouths, grinning. James ignores him.

He announces, "I have a vocal emergency."

"Sorry," his vocal coach tells her student, an older boy, "I have to cut our lesson short for today."

"Thank god," the kid says, throwing up his hands.

He's like fourteen, but James is taller than he is. He tries not to feel intimidated.

"When my mom swings by, tell her I'm playing basketball at the park."

"Okay. Now," she turns to James and Kendall, "Who have you got there?"

"This is Kendall. He's my bestest best friend in the entire universe. And when he sings it sounds like a rampaging hippo."

"Jamie," the woman chastises, "That's not nice."

"It's true," he insists.

"I don't sound like a- like a what?" Kendall frowns, "Hippo? Did you just call me fat?"

"Jamie tends to be a little melodramatic," the woman tells Kendall, narrowing her eyes at James real quick before turning her full attention to the blond, "How about you sing me- oh, I don't know. Something you know the words to?"

After a little bit of hesitation, Kendall does. And James watches the way his vocal coach's eyes grow comically wide and knows she now sees what a _dire situation_ this is. That's what his dad calls something when it's really bad, like someone stealing. Or a broken guitar string. Melodrama is inherited.

"I, uh. That was- good, dear," she tells Kendall, and from the way his cheeks get pink, James knows he knows she's lying through her teeth. She continues, "Is your mom okay with you coming here for lessons? I charge-"

"No!" Kendall says, and he looks at James, "We can't tell my mom."

"Why not?" James asks. Kendall frowns at the ground.

Finally he says, "If we tell her, she'll try to pay, and um, shecan'taffordit."

James blinks, because that was the fastest he's ever seen Kendall talk. Besides, he hadn't really thought of that. His mom and dad are kind of rich. He forgets, sometimes, how Kendall's dad disappeared. Kendall and Katie spend a lot of time at their grandma's, while Mrs. Knight works at the diner.

"She can barely pay for hockey," Kendall says.

"I can't, er-" his vocal coach begins, and James knows she's going to say no, and that can't happen.

"I'll pay you," he announces.

"What? Jamie-"

"He has to be able to sing. He _has_ to."

"I don't-"

James glares at Kendall and says, "Shut up. You have to."

"Jamie, _language_."

"Okay, fine," he grumps, "But I can pay you."

Kendall stares at him.

"I get five dollars a week allowance," James continues proudly, "That's- twenty dollars a month."

He's pretty sure his mom pays a lot more for James to come here, but twenty dollars is a lot.

"With twenty dollars, you can buy new curtains," he frowns at her lacy pink drapes.

"What's wrong with my curtains?"

"Oh. Uh. Nothing," James squeaks. She can't possibly like all that pink, can she? Ugh. Kendall kicks James in the foot. She rolls her eyes.

"Okay. I'll make you a deal. He can come to your lessons. Twice a week."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously," she agrees, "But you have to tell your mom."

"Okay," James agrees, because he knows he can convince him mom not to tell Mrs. Knight if they say its part of like, a birthday surprise or something. He's good at thinking up lies.

The day Kendall starts hitting notes is like, amazing. He's good. He's really, really good, and even his voice coach is impressed. James has never been so proud in his life.

Or, no, that's not true. Because James is even prouder when he sleeps over one night, right before his eighth birthday. Kendall tells him they can play Mario Kart in a minute- he just has to do one thing.

Katie is wailing, and Kendall's mom is still at work, and his grandma's outside, watering the garden before it's fully dark. James thinks he's going to run into her room, chuck her a pacifier and come back down.

Ten minutes pass. Then twenty. James is bored, and the crying has stopped. So he walks to Katie's room. And then James eavesdrops at the door as Kendall sings lullabies to her, and she falls asleep sucking her tiny little thumb. And he thinks, yeah, this totally counts as his good deed for the year.

But it gets even better.

Years later, James sees Kendall on stage for the first time. He knows he's gotten better than good. He's heard him sing in the showers after practice, in the school choir (he joined for a whole day, before he quit), and in defense of _him_, in defense of James's dreams.

He's heard Kendall lay down tracks in the sound booth at Rocque Records, and he's heard him hum softly into Katie's ear, when she's scared but doesn't want anyone to know. A tough ten year old girl is still ten years old.

James is already a little bit besotted with Kendall's hero complex, with his unshakeable loyalty and the way confidence seeps from every pore on his body. With the way Kendall can be awkward and gruffly sweet when he thinks no one's looking, whether it's delivering an apology or throwing James a water bottle when his lungs start to burn. He's infatuated with all of it, with every unexpected quirk of Kendall's personality.

But that single moment when Kendall stands in the spotlight, his body glowing gold, his voice strong, a little rough, but true; reverberating like a second heartbeat through James's ribs?

That's the moment James falls in love with him.

James runs out on stage, for his first real taste of fame, and Kendall's looking straight at him, a grin spread so far across his lips that his face is close to breaking from joy.

Their voices overlap, and James thinks, yeah, teaching Kendall how to sing was the best thing he's ever done.

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><p>AN: Please review.


	2. Feathers Of An Arrow

**Here, Beneath My Lungs**

_II: Feathers Of An Arrow_

By: Jondy Macmillan_  
><em>

A/N: This is the only oneshot I'll be posting in this collection that is not explicitly Kendall/James. It's OT4. The only one I've ever written, actually, unless you count These Kids Are Such A Disgrace, which is more like OTKendall. I dunno. Enjoy.

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><p>They drive out to the desert on hot summer nights, when even the wind off the ocean feels stale, salt turning to ash on their tongues. It should feel like being young, like being a kid again; driving up the coast until they hit the stretch of highway that leads inland, music blasting a beat through their ears, their ribs, tracking down their spines and then out again through the leather of the car seats, sticky hot against the skin of their backs. It should, but it doesn't, because they were never kids here, not in the land of glitter and sunshine, palm trees and dreams. Their childhoods were snow ball fights and hot tub parties, the hiss of steam and the buzz of icy cold beer to keep the darkness at bay, and the distant, cold clarity of the stars singing through their veins.<p>

They all remember different things, when they close their eyes against the noisy thrum of the freeway and feel the hard bass line pound away every thought, drown everything except the rhythm of their breath and the drip of sweat from their eyelashes. For Kendall, it's the first girl he ever slept with. He was fourteen and she was soft and tight and burning hot, even though the windows of her garage were iced over with lace patterns. He thinks about her soft breath, the way she arched into him, her hair spilling down her shoulders to the slick sheen of her breasts. He hasn't talked to her in years, but he can't remember why. He thinks, maybe it was because of how awkward it was afterwards, when she stood there in her polka dot sweatshirt and low slung jeans, the memory of being split wide open and raw reflected in her eyes. Then again, she started dating a football player two months later, and Kendall's not sure if he ever forgave her for that wound to his pride.

Carlos thinks about his family, and how they're scattered across America like so much bird seed. When he was little, he used to sit on his mother's lap on their porch when summer storms rolled in, and he'd watch the way the lightning flashed white hot and dangerous in the sky, thunder cracking like an amplified gunshot. Papi used to take them to the shooting range near the department, all of them, on special days, when it was empty of all the police men. He'd strip his gun down, bare its guts, and tell them stories about the genius of mankind, and how it was inevitably used to rain down death on their neighbors. Carlos had decided in that moment that he didn't want to be smart, to bring destruction to anybody, anywhere; not then, not ever. Papi was his hero, but the gun in his hands was a snakebite waiting to happen, liquid black poison, and Carlos no longer dreamed about following in his father's footsteps. When he curled into his mother's chest, he could see Papi out of the corner of his eye, around the floral print of her shirt. His brothers and sisters were huddled into the cave of their father's arms, and they watched him, captivated, as he made shadow puppets with his fingers, eagles and crocodiles outlined against the peeling clapboard of their house, made brilliant by the ferocity of the storm.

Logan isn't thinking about anything, not really. His mind is always going, going, going, gone, and sometimes it's nice to hear the words of a song and not actually analyze them, not to wonder if the throb of the speakers might actually manage to blow out his eardrums, not this time. Camille broke up with him for the ninth time a week before, and it's honestly a blessing to stop thinking at all.

James is the only one with his eyes wide open, and he can see the way Kendall's slumped against the window of the passenger seat, his hand dangling out to make little undulations against the air rushing past the car. He can see Carlos breathing fog onto the half closed glass in the rear, his index finger tracing pictures of pine trees and mountains and things that feel like _home_. And Logan's back there too, his legs extended up front, the toe of his sneaker close to nudging the gear shift, his eyes fluttering openshutopen like he can't figure out if it's better to stay awake or dream.

They've done this countless times before, so many that the nights have all blurred into one long, thrilling game. And James plans on savoring it.

He loves California, loves the way he can dip his feet in the Pacific Ocean and feel like he's standing at the edge of the world. Like there's a whole new frontier out there, waiting to be discovered, but it can wait, because he's _right there_, on the verge. He loves that this place, this magical fucking land has given him _this_, even though it's sure to be transient.

He grips the wheel hard and turns off the freeway, the air immediately boiling up a few notches. They're leaving the sunset behind them, now, and Kendall's fingers begin to taptaptap against the side of the car. Logan's foot brushes James's elbow, the only sign he's noticed that they're closer. Soon enough they'll be parked, and it will begin.

James knows what this is. He always has.

For Kendall their little ritual is about sex, about the hard bodies, the tremor of muscles; Logan's hitched breath and Carlos's unbridled enthusiasm and the sweaty curl of James's hair around the shell of his ear. It's harnessing all that pent up energy, just like before a show, and making it into something more, something better, something _real._

To Carlos it's family, the comfort and the familiar squeeze of people who might as well be blood. It's watching a thunder storm curled into his mother's chest, the spark of his father's gun, the firm press of skin, like brothers in a puppy pile. He sometimes wonders if it would the same with a girl, or with just _one_ of them.

With Kendall, on his own, their shining leader in all things.

Or James, who moans like he sings.

Or even Logan, who knows so many things, like how to use his hands, his teeth, and his tongue just right.

It isn't like he would ever do something like this with his real brothers and sisters, but the guys are one step away from blood; all the comfort and none of the shame.

Carlos thinks about girls and red mouthed boys, but he isn't quite ready to step out on his own, not just yet.

For Logan, it's simply a way to forget a girl with fire in her eyes and the way he never can seem to do the right thing. It's his friends, and the way they give pleasure so freely, and the way they are simultaneously right and wrong. He never could turn down a paradox.

They all have reasons to be there, except for James, who feels like he's observing a car crash in slow motion. Who knows that one day soon this won't happen anymore.

Everything has gotten so convoluted.

Most days they love each other too hard, too much, when they shouldn't.

Some days, when it counts, they don't love each other nearly enough.

And then, every once in a while, James will catch one of them staring at another covetously, a kind of fierce possession and downy softness in their eyes, and he knows they've already fucked everything.

They've gone too far, and broken every rule, and now they're so close to splintering.

Because four isn't a balanced number, and unrequited love has destroyed some of the best men in history. With a little unrequited love and a side helping of jealousy, a whole dynasty of eighteen years could come tumbling down. Even James isn't immune.

He doesn't let himself think about that. He drives and drives until he can't go any farther, until they're hidden amongst dry brush and clay colored sand, the desert already cooler with nightfall than the coastline has been all week.

Carlos is citrus, sunshine and dew, the heady taste of humid air and the dry brush of palm leaves.

Logan is a cool breeze, the sparkle of light off the glassy surface of a lake, lukewarm water and the scrape of shells and the slick slide of algae beneath his feet. He's holding your breath beneath the soft lapping waves and peering up at the stars through a stream of bubbles.

And Kendall, Kendall is everything. He's the earthen sent of pine leaves and damp ground, the rustle of sharp wind and the hazy light of a million galaxies spinning overhead. He's the heat rising off concrete on a hot summer day and the molten chocolate and marshmallow concoction in a s'more and the spark of a campfire.

He doesn't just have fire, he embodies it, jumping from one task to the next like a flame, catching hold, capable of destroying a person in his wake.

None of it is like a magazine shoot, where all of their imperfections are photoshopped out of the public eye; every freckle and zit falling by the wayside. In the play of shadows and starlight, everything stands out in stark relief. James can see the mole beneath Kendall's hip bone, the dark circle beneath the sharp juncture where everything meets. He can see the thin, jagged white scar where he once impaled himself on a bicycle spoke beneath the silvery gold hair of his leg and the burn on his shoulder from when he tried to make pancakes with Katie a few weeks past.

He can see the way Logan's cheeks dimple and how his eyes flicker shut when he kisses him, kisses James while Kendall's hand is shoved down the front of his khakis.

James can't see Carlos at all, but Carlos is behind him, fingers fumbling with his belt and James doesn't need to see for the image to form in his mind.

Logan sucks a bruise into the skin right below his jaw, and James reaches out wildly, wanting to feel flesh beneath his finger tips, wanting the indent of Carlos's muscles or the sharp jut of Kendall's hipbone or the smooth dip of Logan's clavicle. He wants to feel it all at once, and liquid heat shifts like mercury low his belly, sliding smooth and silver beneath his skin.

He feels teeth skid along the inside of his thigh and he can't help feeling like he's burning up, inside out. He's always the first to give in.

Seconds pass, or minutes, or hours, and there's no such thing as time here. They're building a melody, a song between the four of them; something James won't be able to remember when it's over. A warm hand bumps his, and James's fingers cling to skin, to calluses and scars that were crafted in his presence.

He recognizes Kendall the same way he recognizes Carlos moving inside him, the harsh pull of skin like a heat storm building in his ribcage, crackling electricity threatening to pull him apart. Kendall's arm is snaked around Logan's side, forearm resting against James's hip, and when his skin rubs against Carlos's, James can feel a shiver go through the body behind him, the way things grow more intense, movements more focused, more determined.

When he comes it's a crescendo. Its sweaty summer nights and the knowledge that they love each other all wrong and right at the same time, and that one day, just like this, they'll implode.

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><p>AN: Please review. I'm doing this oneshot collection because I was asked to, but I'm not super interested in taking the time to edit and post my LJ work if there's not much interest. I don't have the time or the energy to track the stats and I don't want to waste anyone's time. -shrugs- If you're not enjoying this shit, it's kind of a lame project, no? Next oneshot will not be posted unless I see visible interest. Sorry.


	3. The West Coast Sky

**Here, Beneath My Lungs  
><strong>

_III: The West Coast Sky (Daring Me To Try)_

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: Okay, okay, you guys are awesome. I'll keep posting these. This one is ummm. Verging on smutty. So warning for that. Title is from Crush'd by Say Anything. _  
><em>

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><p>"Get up, get up, get up."<p>

"No. Wha? No. G'way."

"Get. _Up_."

"Dude." Kendall groans and rubs at his eyes, trying to see what his bedside clock says. And that cannot be right. "It's _four_ in the morning."

"Yep. Come on, get up!"

"James. No. Give me my blanket back."

"Can't do that."

"James."

"It's raining," James announces, bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet. He is entirely too cheery.

"And four in the morning."

"I'm aware."

"Kendall, come _on._"

"It's _four_ in the _morning_."

"Why do you keep saying that? I'm not so good with numbers, but I can read clocks just fine."

"We have to be in the studio in three hours. What do you have against sleep?"

"Sleep's boring."

"Sleep is not boring. Sleep is awesome. _Sexy_, even. Sleep and I need some private time, alone, right now."

Kendall tries to grab for his comforter, but James drops it onto the floor in a crumpled heap and says, "We are going to go see the rain."

"Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously. It rains like, three times a year around here. We need to go watch, for posterity."

"I can see it just fine, out the window. Or I could, if you lift the blinds."

"See with your hands, not with your eyes!"

"That goes against everything they taught me in preschool."

"You are coming with me. Right now."

"James- no, James! I'm in my underwear."

"So? It's four in the morning. No one's going to see."

He yanks Kendall's arm so hard that he has no choice but to follow.

Kendall trips over his feet and the comforter and probably the floor, a little bit, because he's still half asleep. Yawning, he stumbles after James, trusting that his best friend won't lead him into any doorframes or stray furniture.

That trust is probably misguided, because James is obviously _deranged_. He leads Kendall out of the apartment and into the deserted hallway. Then the elevator. Then the lobby. Where Kendall can see perfectly that there is a raging, thundering, veritable _monsoon_ outside, complete with distant flashes of lightning. And then James is running out into the storm, laughing.

His hair is immediately matted to his forehead, and Kendall thinks that it's the first time he's seen James look less than perfect since Minnesota.

James splashes out into the road, and Kendall notices that he's not really wearing anything but a pair of thin, drawstring sweats. Within seconds, they're clinging to every inch of him. He is going to catch his death.

There is a very real possibility here that Gustavo will murder them. Their bodies might never be found. Kendall shivers, wrapping his arms around himself and steadfastly refusing to step foot outside of the lobby.

James has other plans. He executes a quick spin, tilting his chin up so that the rain's pounding hard on his face, his shoulders, and his bare, slick chest.

"Come dance with me," he calls with a wicked grin, pulling a move that's part of their new song's choreography. Kendall has yet to master that one, and James knows it. He shimmies his hips a little for emphasis.

And Kendall knows this, knows that James is basically a creature of the sunlight but still loves a good storm. Back home in Minnesota he'd call Kendall over, and they'd sit on James's porch, watching the rain come down like they would a TV show, snacks in their lap. They'd holler up at the broken sky, loving the way their voices sounded muted, lost beneath the fury of Mother Nature.

James keeps on dancing, every movement dazzling, sending up a spray of water that sparkles in the faded gold streetlights. He runs a hand down the front of his body, thrusting his hips and-

"Okay, you know what?" Kendall curses and strides right out there. He's wet and he's cold and he pushes James against the wall of the hotel mid-spin. He keeps him pinned there with one hand, a casual palm pressed against his shoulder.

James grins cockily.

"You don't like the rain?"

"Rain's great. Love it," Kendall says, watching James's lips, water-slick.

"Then what's the problem?" James asks innocently, and he is such a dick because he knows exactly what the problem is.

Kendall nips at his lips, kissing him so hard that he really hopes James's mouth bruises. He tongues at James's jaw, bites the place where his shoulder and neck intersect, liking the noise that James makes and the accompanying movement of his hips. Kendall mouths his way down the front of James's chest, and it mostly tastes like California rainwater; earthy and a little metallic, but underneath that is James's weird manspray and sweat.

Kendall shoves James's sweatpants down around his thighs, and he can hear James make this keening noise; half anticipation, half protest, because they're right in front of the hotel, where anyone can see them. Kendall grins, because wasn't James the one who insisted no one would be awake right now?

He likes the heat of James's dick against his lips, the weight of it in his mouth.

He likes the way that when he works his tongue over the underside, when he sucks against skin and hums a little, James can't really control himself. His hips begin to fuck up into Kendall's mouth. His hands start to pull at his soaking wet hair, controlling the rhythm.

Kendall likes being on his knees on the sidewalk in front of the Palmwoods, being owned by James, but mostly owning him until his voice is high and broken.

The rain is dripping rivers into his eyes, nose, and mouth, making it harder to see, to breathe. But when James starts to pant Kendall's name, urging him to go faster, it's pretty much worth it. Kendall adds in his hand, a twist of his wrist and more speed to make it better.

Kendall grins wickedly when James comes apart, spilling hot and slick down Kendall's throat.

When he pulls back, he sees that James is sagging against the wall, soaked through and trembling. Kendall wipes his hand on those stupid sweatpants, still rucked down around James's thighs. He takes a few steps back until he's dripping all over the threshold of the lobby.

Then he calls, "No more early morning booty calls, James."

James stares at him, mouth open, wet and vulnerable and helpless, but mostly guilty looking. And Kendall thinks that yeah. He's gonna have good dreams for the rest of the night.

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><p>AN: Lol I won't beg anymore 'cause you guys have made your point about me posting. But reviews will impact update speed (it will guilt me out of being lazy). So please review!


	4. Young And Naïve Still

**Here, Beneath My Lungs**

_IV: Young And Naïve Still_

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: JanayOkay14 pointed this out, and I wanted to give a general response. :) Yeah, the last one was shorter than what you guys are used to from me, and all of these will be, in a way. Over on LJ I write a lot of one shots that are under 2k- some of them barely top 800 words. That was kind of the reason I made a collection. I'm not the biggest fan of oneshot collections, if we're being completely honest, but I didn't want to clog up my profile, and also, I know some of you have trouble with LJ. So. :) Coming soon, there will be one of those 800 word stories. But I'll probably follow up with something closer to 3k.

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><p>James hates the way he looks.<p>

He's thirteen, sprouting long, spidery limbs all over the place. He's got hair coming in the nooks and crannies his fifth grade health teacher warned about, and his feet sweat like a beast. But all that's normal. His friends are going through the exact same things, and that, yeah, he can deal with that.

What he can't deal with is the rosy hue of his cheeks, or the way his mom flat out refuses to buy him a stupid haircut until it's halfway down his neck and curling around his ears, or the way girls keep telling him that he has the prettiest fucking eyelashes they've ever seen. He can't stand that his teammates joke about his willowy figure or when his dad observes how lovely he looks in the mornings, hair still rumpled from sleep.

He's a _boy_, goddamnit. If anything, he's supposed to be handsome.

Aside from his natural good looks, James blames a large portion of the jokes on his mom, the sadistic bitch. She's been dressing him in lace and bows since he was old enough to walk.

She told the neighbors she had a daughter until, in a fit of enraged passion when he was four, he decided to run around naked on their front yard. His mom says he did it because he was trying to escape bath time, but whatever, he thinks it was from a fit of enraged passion.

Point being, he might be a _little_ sensitive to the whole thing. Boys are not supposed to be _pretty_.

On their most recent shopping trip, his mom tried to get him to buy these pink button down shirts instead of the awesome graphic tees he wanted. It was the last straw.

Even though James considers himself a Very Mature thirteen, he still kind of had a temper tantrum. He yelled and he faked tears and everything, until his mom caved and bought him some grungy looking pre-ripped jeans.

Not his finest moment.

It was a perfectly acceptable reaction, though. He'd like to see someone else feel differently, if all of their baby pictures involved frilly pink dresses.

Anyway, that was yesterday, and now James has been in a _mood_ all day. His mom calls it that, like she can't actually recognize that he's pissed the fuck off. Like using less loaded words will somehow make his anger okay.

He's supposed to be helping Kendall out, gathering shit in his backyard for a science project. Kendall didn't want to work with him. James didn't take it as an insult. They'd all tried to partner up with Logan, but Logan was onto them. He knew they wouldn't do any of the work, and had already opted to spend the day with a pretty blonde girl who was willing to lift her own weight when it came to science. Which leaves James with Kendall, picking through the trash in the hopes that they can glue together something passable.

James has a ginormous back yard. It borders the woods, which go on for miles, long past the outskirts of town. He waits on the sidewalk outside of his house until Kendall's dad's pickup pulls up.

"Dude. Ever heard of a comb?"

Kendall tosses a black plastic comb from his dad's glove box at James's head.

"Don't throw things," his dad warns with a fond smile.

"Yeah, yeah," Kendall rolls his eyes and hops out of the truck, coming to a stop on the curb in front of James, "You ready?"

"I don't need a comb," James says with a frown, trying to get Kendall to give it back to his dad. But Kendall won't take it, and his dad's already halfway down the road, his exhaust pipe making tiny little clouds in the freezing cold air. James tucks it in his mailbox, figuring the sad postal dude with the sadder comb over can make use of it.

"Yeah, you really do. I thought your mom didn't let you out of the house looking like that."

He makes a face at James's rumpled t-shirt, peeking out from beneath his pristine peacoat. Kendall's eyes reach James's knees, peeking out of his fancy ripped jeans, and James can just see him thinking something practical, like _isn't he cold_?

He is kind of cold. But ripped denim is in-fashion. For _boys_. James read all about it in his mom's newest issue of In Style.

Making a statement is hard, sometimes.

"My mom is a fascist," James says. Kendall blinks.

"Someone paid attention in history."

"Logan's been tutoring me," he mutters, a little embarrassed.

"Well, whatever, if you want to look like a hobo that's your prerogative. See, Logan teaches me things too," Kendall says cheekily, and then under his breath mumbles, "I really hope I used that word right. Let's go."

James follows Kendall around the side of his house and out into the woods, behind the clearly marked line of demarcation between his neatly trimmed lawn and a long stretch of wilderness. He kicks a rock and wonders if anyone's ever told Kendall he's pretty.

Doubtful.

He's not traditionally good looking. His nose has that bump from the time he broke it during playoffs when they were ten, and his eyebrows are really thick and bushy, and when he smiles it's kind of impish; but James likes his face. He likes the way Kendall's dimples have deepened the older he gets. He likes the obvious masculinity in the set of his jaw, even though his voice still cracks like a boy's. He's handsome, kind of, in this roguish, unexpected way.

At thirteen, Kendall's everything James wants to be.

No one would ever try to stuff him in a pink shirt.

James stares at the thin wings of his friend's shoulder blades through his striped sweater and wishes that he looked more like a real boy, like Kendall. That his eyelashes weren't so long and his cheeks didn't flush so easily and that his smile wasn't so straight and pearly white. He knows ripped jeans and grungy hair aren't ever really going to cover those things up.

"Right, so do you have any idea what we're supposed to be doing?"

Kendall squints at his crumpled up assignment sheet, twisting it this way and that, like maybe a change in angle can unlock the secret of what it is their teacher wants.

"No idea," James says, "Just start picking up whatever trash you see, and we'll, I don't know. Build something."

Kendall rolls his eyes.

"Right. So we're going to be making a beer can wind chime."

"Basically," James replies, knowing that the only thing they'll find in the woods will be a rainbow of aluminum left behind by drunk high school kids.

A windchime probably isn't what the teacher's looking for, but whatever. He'll give them a C minus if he wants their hockey team to go to nationals. The principal certainly does.

They've been scavenging for about half an hour when Kendall chucks an empty can at his head.

"Hey, watch it."

"Make me," Kendall says with a grin.

James crosses his arms.

"Don't be such a priss," Kendall laughs, taunting. He flicks the tab of the can at James's head, and oh no, he did _not_ just call James a priss. James dodges, easily. Kendall goes to grab another can.

With a flying leap, James tackles Kendall into the mud, laughing when the muck splashes up around them.

"Aw, aw, this is gross," Kendall yelps, but James has his fingers twisted around the blond's hair, and he's rubbing Kendall's head into the ground so that the mud's going to be impossible to get off of his scalp. Kendall laughs and twists like an eel, bucking his hips until he's got James on his back, and he's the one whose head is getting caked with the dregs of the forest. Kendall goes the extra mile and rubs a big handful of dirt in James's face.

James decides that dirt does not taste pleasant.

He throws out an elbow in the direction he thinks Kendall's face is. He catches him in the throat, if the noise he makes is any indication. James wraps his arm around his friend's neck and pulls him into the mud with him, wrestling for power until they're both laughing hard, hitting and panting and generally seeing who can beat the other down harder. It's been their one ongoing competition since they first learned how to walk.

Five minutes later, their wild thrashing has died down, and James can feel a black eye forming. They're both lying on their backs, staring up at the canopy of the forest, trying to pick grody debris from their eyes.

"You look like swamp thing," James accuses through staccato breaths, his heart pounding like a percussion drum.

Kendall snorts a laugh, breathy and high and delighted, still every inch a teenage boy. He opens his mouth to say something scathing.

Then, weirdly, he stops.

"James," Kendall says, and James looks up, muddy sludge sliding from his eyebrow to his cheekbone, and yeah, he definitely feels a bruise forming. His mom will not be impressed.

He figures there's probably blood in his smile when he asks, "What?"

"You're, uh-" Kendall bites his lip and then blurts, "You're really beautiful."

James blinks, glancing down at his mud caked jeans. A little bug eyed, he asks, "Right now?"

"Yeah," Kendall smiles, and his face is filthy and James thinks he might be missing one of his teeth, but it doesn't even matter because he's the nicest thing James has ever seen. He echoes, "Right now."

James is thinking that this is nothing, that Kendall will think he looks even nicer in those designer jeans his mom picked up a few weeks back, the ones he refused to wear. If he maybe did his hair and acted less surly, he bet he'd look really good. He wonders what Kendall will think then.

His stomach clenches when he catches where exactly his train of thought is headed, but for the first time, he doesn't really mind. It's weird, but suddenly, he really wants to be beautiful.

For Kendall. Anything to make him smile, just like that.

Later that day, after Kendall goes home, James grabs the comb out of his mailbox. He figures you never know. It could turn out to be some kind of lucky charm.

* * *

><p>AN: Please review!


	5. Stronger Souls Than You

**Here, Beneath My Lungs**

_V: Stronger Souls Than You_

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: The body of this is only 900 words. (You get a 2k one next, promise.) Title is from Transylvanian by Say Anything. Which, according to my iTunes is only called Transylvanian, but according to all the lyrics sites is called I Am A Transylvanian. Since I've had the song since like, two years after iTunes' inception and way, way longer than I've had iTunes, I'mma go with my title.

* * *

><p>James has nightmares. He doesn't tell Kendall about them. He's the heir to a multi-million dollar cosmetics company; he's expected to have a certain amount of dignity. But Kendall knows. He hears him at night, murmuring to himself, tossing and turning, his face more vulnerable than it ever is when he's awake.<p>

Kendall will shift his sleeping bag close under the low hanging sheets that make up their fort. He'll run his hands through James's hair, soft and citrus smelling like a girl's. He'll lean close to James's ear and whisper, "It's okay. It will be okay. When I count to three, you'll only have good dreams."

He'll brush his mouth close to James's ear so that his mom won't hear, won't come and yell at him for staying up so long after lights out. He'll thread his tiny arm around James's neck; hold him close like he does with Katie, even though she's only two.

"One," he'll count, his voice and James's breath the only sound he can hear.

"Two…"

James will turn into him, snuggle close, like a teddy bear. He's warm, always so much warmer than Kendall ever feels in the middle of winter.

His nightmares always stop before Kendall reaches three.

* * *

><p>Kendall has stage fright. Nothing has ever scared him before, but his first time stepping out on the ice in front of what has to be at least fifty people terrifies him.<p>

Hockey was a terrible idea.

He tells that to James, who doesn't really get it.

"You love hockey."

"When there's no one watching!"

"But- you're good. Why do you care who sees?"

"What if I mess up?"

"You won't."

"But what if I do?"

"You won't. I'll be right behind you. Now come on, we've got to _go_."

"James, I-"

"On the count of three. One. Two!"

Kendall stumbles out onto the ice, nearly falling over himself. But James is there, holding his elbows, pushing him forwards. Pushing him to be great.

* * *

><p>In the summer, they go to the lake and throw themselves beneath the surface. They swing from a rope tied precariously to a tree branch, cannonballs of color and laughter. Carlos always goes first because Carlos is the most impatient, and then Logan because he's always got to make sure that Carlos doesn't do something stupid, like go too deep and pop an eardrum. Or drown.<p>

Kendall and James always go at the same time, because it's a contest to see who goes out the farthest. There's no way to tell if either of them are cheating if they have time to paddle out further during the second swing. So they hold onto the rope, hands climbing over each other, gazes challenging.

"We'll go on three," Kendall says, a smile stretching his face so wide he feels like it might split in two.

James nods, an answering grin quirking his lips. "One."

"Two."

_Splash_.

* * *

><p>The first time they kiss, it's on a dare, tequila like fire in their throat. Jenny Tinkler is watching with dancing eyes. She claps her hands and says, "Okay guys. Ready? One, two-"<p>

* * *

><p>California is sunshine and palm trees and sea salt and a thousand different things conspiring to tear them apart. But no matter how many times they fight during the day over a pretty girl or the best lounge chair or who gets the pink smoothie, they always come back together in the studio.<p>

The first time they step on stage, it's just like the hockey rink, back when they were ten. Kendall can't force himself to go forwards, can't breathe, can't find his voice. He feels James's hands behind him, a gentle push.

"You can do this," he says, nipping at Kendall's ear.

"On three?" Kendall asks. He feels the curve of James's smile against his neck.

"One. Two-"

* * *

><p>They have sex for the first time in a hotel room in a European city that James isn't sure how to pronounce. Logan tries to teach him at least eight times, but truth be told, he doesn't really care what it's called. Kendall does, though. He thinks he'll remember this night for the rest of his life.<p>

He's got James hovering over him, the head of his cock halfway inside of him, and he's still not sure if he can do this but James is soft, slow, shifting. He says, "Hold on, I think if I- shhh. One, two-"

Kendall sees stars in James's eyes.

* * *

><p>James breaks up with Kendall three days after he lands his solo recording contract. He says they've grown apart, that their relationship wasn't in a good place. Kendall doesn't believe that. He doesn't believe this is happening, doesn't know how to stop it. He stands in front of Rocque Records watching James walk away and he tells himself that it will be okay.<p>

He rakes his fingers through his hair, his hair that still smells like James's stupid girly shampoo and he thinks that it will all turn out fine. That James will change his mind and come back on the count of three.

Kendall watches James's silhouette grow more distant, swallowed by the busy tourist traffic of downtown Los Angeles and he counts.

One.

Two.

James doesn't turn around.

"…Three," Kendall whispers.

* * *

><p>AN: Now I'm going to go hide.


	6. Like The Shotgun

**Here, Beneath My Lungs**

_VI: Like The Shotgun (Needs An Outcome)_

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: The rating just shot up to M here. This is smut. Like, legitimate smut. There's really nothing redeeming about it. It's also probably the longest oneshot I'll put in this collection. I would have published it on it's own, but I'm not totally comfortable doing that with a porn!fic. I have one based off of Big Time Prom that I might post as a stand alone. Maybe. **  
><strong>

* * *

><p>It starts like this:<p>

Kendall is standing in the hallway on his floor. He's about to hit up the local ice rink, because it's been a sweltering summer and he's beginning to feel insanity creep up his spine like spider legs. The band's got a big tour scheduled to start come July, and the last thing that he needs is a dose of Hollywood Fever.

He's not entirely sure how it would affect him, but he doesn't want to turn into a huge stoner.

Or a Jennifer.

Or dye himself orange. He's perfectly happy with his skin tone, thank you very much.

So he's standing in the hall, equipment duffel at his feet, flicking through songs until he finds his adrenaline jam. Right when his finger's hovering over the play button, he hears girlish giggling from what sounds like that new, hot girl in 2E and her equally hot friend. And a Jennifer, for once without the other two.

Kendall's pretty sure that it is a biological anomaly for one of those harpies to function without the pack.

Someone should film it for the Discovery Channel.

The Jennifers scare him a little bit. They have ever since the time they stole all of his flannel shirts and burned them in the bonfire pit. James said they were obviously championing for fashion.

Carlos said psychotic behavior didn't make them any less hot.

Logan kept his mouth quiet about the whole thing, but Kendall thinks that's mostly because he agreed with James. Which Kendall finds highly hypocritical of him, considering that Logan dresses like he just escaped from prep school.

Anyway, the hot new girl is saying, "-James Diamond-" which makes Kendall pause. He really wants to listen to his Get Pumped playlist, but at the same time, he feels like eavesdropping is the way to go here. James has been dying to bang the new chick since the second she stepped foot in the lobby, and Kendall bets he'll offer up a week of dish duty for some really good reconnaissance.

Kendall pulls his beanie down low over his eyebrows and leans casually into the wall, trying for incognito. The girl continues "-has a bangin' body. His abs look like they're made of stone."

Kendall frowns because, okay, not exactly intelligence that's going to get him out of dishwashing. James _knows_ he has a bangin' body. He's made a point of informing Kendall that he's built like a Greek god ever since they covered mythology in the fourth grade. James stares at himself in the mirror for hours at a time, cataloguing every hard angle of it. He goes so far as to show it off to perfect strangers without even being prompted. This is not _news._

"God, yes." The new girl's fine friend practically moans. "Can you imagine what it would be like to hit that?"

Jennifer chimes in, "I do imagine. Often." Her voice gets all shivery and she says, "In the pool. In the elevator. In the lobby."

The new girl laughs and says, "I've got this one ongoing fantasy where he just pushes me up against a wall and-"

Kendall slams his finger onto the play button, a percussion drum filling his ears.

He can feel his cheeks burning bright red and he isn't completely sure why. It's not like he's going to win any awards for chastity. He hasn't been a virgin since he tapped his lab partner in the chemistry closet during free period a month before they moved to California. And it's not like he's surprised that girls have voracious appetites for sex or anything. He has listened in on Camille's free love speeches more than once.

But- the way they were talking about James is just. Wow. He trembles.

They didn't even say anything explicit. It's just that now he has this _image_ in his head of James shoving some nameless, faceless female against sheetrock. He's got this perfect picture of the way her legs would wrap around James's hips and the way she'd sigh as he pushes inside of her.

Kendall's thinking about James's face, about the kind of expression he makes when he comes and- _fuck_.

Suddenly the nameless, faceless female isn't nameless, faceless, or _female_.

The blueprint of how their bodies fit together is different, but almost hotter. Kendall would have to brace himself against painted plaster, push his hips out while James snakes a hand around his waist and- No. _What_ is he thinking?

Kendall turns the music up so high that he's reasonably certain he's going to blow out an eardrum, but it still doesn't make the idea of James's hands like fire on his skin go away.

He doesn't end up going to the rink.

He's too busy barricading himself into the bathroom in the middle of the day like a thirteen year old boy, jerking off to thoughts of James fucking him until he can't see straight.

* * *

><p>Kendall decides that Hollywood Fever has set in full force. That has to be it, right? Because he's never had a wayward thought about any of his friends before. He's never once looked at them and thought, <em>damn<em>, I'd like to see what kind of faces they make in bed.

Sure, there was that time in kindergarten where he told his mom that Carlos was the person he was going to marry when he grew up.

And there was that one week in fifth grade when he decided that girls were kind of bitchy and _what was the big deal about boobs_, _anyway_, and forced Logan to experiment with him behind the gym.

And there were all the times that Kendall inadvertently checked James out in the showers after practice, but those girls were right, dangit. James is _fantastic_ looking. But _looking_ doesn't mean anything.

Kendall likes to look at Brazilian bikini models, but that doesn't mean that he wants to- wait. Bad example.

Kendall likes to look at tigers at the zoo, but it doesn't mean he's interested in bestiality.

He wouldn't mind cuddling with them, though. Tigers are fluffy and adorable.

Anyway, he figures that his friends owe him one. He saved them from lives of pot-smoking, fedora-wearing oranginess, so why wouldn't they want to return the favor?

Only, when he goes to Logan and says, "I have the Fever," Logan does not look suitably impressed by the gravity of the situation.

"I don't think so."

"What makes you such an expert?"

Logan gives him a look and sighs.

"Okay. Fine. Tell Doctor Logan your symptoms." Logan pats a spot on the couch where there is just enough room between his physics text and his tiny ass that Kendall can probably squeeze in, but-

He realizes that telling Logan his symptoms will involve talking about his fantasies.

His fantasies revolving around James.

Naked.

Kendall decides that maybe he needs to tackle this problem a different way. He goes to Carlos and says, "I've got the Fever."

Carlos squints at him and asks, "Do you want me to take you shoe shopping?"

"No. _Why_ would I want to do that?"

"It's fun."

Kendall considers.

"Yeah, okay."

He might as well try out whatever he can.

* * *

><p>He's standing in the middle of a row of imported Italian leather oxfords when he tells Carlos, "This isn't helping."<p>

"Really?" Carlos frowns down at the large bag of shoes he's already purchased. "We could try something else. Want to egg Matthew McConaughey's house?"

"Gustavo would like that too much."

"Want to egg _Gustavo's_ house?" Kendall weighs the cons of dying with the pros of forgetting about how much he wants to get James's mouth around his dick.

"I can get behind that."

So they throw eggs at Gustavo's mansion until he comes home early from the studio- which is pretty much an unheard of occurrence. Kendall decides that he's going to have to have words with Kelly if Gustavo doesn't kill them with that baseball bat first.

* * *

><p>They end up in singing boot camp for an entire week.<p>

Kendall is seventeen years old and definitely not built for fifteen hour work days.

"Isn't it illegal to torture of prisoners of war?" He groans to James and Logan, who are both resolutely not talking to him.

Except to say, "This is your fault."

Logan's pissed that they've gotten him in trouble, again.

James is just mad that he wasn't in on the action.

Which makes Kendall start thinking about action _with_ James, and he's wrong about boot camp being torture. It's the part where he's squeezed into a sound booth that's half the size of a very small bathroom that's equivalent to waterboarding. James is pressed up against the front of Kendall while he sings this one verse and his ass is perfectly lined up with Kendall's dick and- this is a problem.

Kendall is painfully, achingly hard in his jeans, and if James moves even an inch he's going to feel it. Kendall has never been very big on praying because he's a big believer in charting your own destiny, but right now he's begging any deity who happens to be listening that James won't budge.

There is no god.

James moves. His voice cuts off halfway through the verse and he turns, staring at Kendall in blatant shock. He doesn't have time to say anything because Gustavo is yelling into the mic and James has to pick up where he left off, immediately. But Kendall feels like it's probably a temporary reprieve in what's sure to be a gigantic catastrophe.

He stares miserably at the back of his best friend's neck and wonders why his penis decided that now is the opportune time to start acting like it's just figured out what it's meant for. He hasn't been this horny or wretched since he first became a teenager and thought kitchen tile was sexy.

* * *

><p>James confronts him in his room. Kendall knows it's coming before it happens; subtle is not James's style.<p>

James tries for casual, but when he asks, "So, what was up with that boner you popped today?" it mostly sounds a little awkward.

Which is weird, because James is a master flirt. Kendall's never seen him stumble around words with girls, but he figures he should cut him a break. Boys are probably new territory for him.

Especially boys who shared his sleeping bag when they went camping back in elementary school.

"I don't know."

"You told Carlos and Logan you had Hollywood Fever," James says, and it sounds like an accusation. Kendall feels a little guilty.

James is big on reciprocation. Kendall did whatever he could to save James from a life of being mangerine, but Kendall didn't even let James know he was having a problem. He can see how that would bother him.

"Um. Yeah."

"So what are your symptoms? Surprise erections?" James guesses, teasing a little. Kendall stares at his mouth, shame burning in his veins.

"Sure. Let's go with that."

"Wait, you're _serious_?" James looks awed.

"Isn't that what you came here to talk about?"

"No, man, I just wanted to ask you about the Fever thing. I mean, I was joking before when I said- I figured you were just- I don't know. Looking down the front of Kelly's shirt again. That's really what's happening? You just get hard for no reason?"

Kendall looks away.

"Have you tried- you know?"

"Constantly." Kendall groans, falling back onto his bed. "It's awful."

"Fuck, dude. That's- maybe we can buy you some self tanner and see if you get addicted to that instead?"

"Probably not going to work."

Kendall buries his face in his pillow and tries not to look at how tight James's jeans are. The designer who made them is obviously inhumane.

"Have you tried getting with a girl? That might help."

"Oh yeah?" He cracks open one eye, peering up at James. "What girl?"

"Jo?"

"Jo and I broke up two months ago." Kendall frowns. "You know that."

"But maybe if you told her- your problem, she'd like-"

"Give me a pity fuck? Thanks. Your faith in me is appreciated. Anyway," he mutters, "Jo won't help."

"You don't know that. She's a sweet girl."

"No, I mean- having sex with _her_ won't help."

"Wait- so, there's someone who will?"

"What? I didn't say that."

"You indicated you have a specific person in mind."

"No."

"You do! Tell me."

"No."

"Tell me," James insists.

"There's no one."

"Tell. Me." James emphasizes his point by practically straddling Kendall and okay, that is certainly _not_ helpful. Thank god he's lying on his side, because his dick is at least partially paying attention to this scenario.

"Get off."

"You're going to tell me," James says, and then he's digging his fingertips into Kendall's ribs, tickling him until he has no choice but to twist his body, thrusting upwards and _he will not surrender to these terrorist tactics_, but suddenly James's hips are flat against his and-

When the sparks clear from behind Kendall's eyes he sees James, staring down at him with this completely inscrutable expression. His fingers are still resting against Kendall's ribs, but the tickle onslaught has stopped. Tentatively, James reaches a hand down between them, cupping his hand over Kendall's now _very_ interested cock.

James doesn't say anything, but his eyes get that wide, dazed look he sometimes has when he's thinking really hard about something. Kendall tries not to move or breathe, because James's fingers are a light pressure against his hard on and even though he wants to buck up into the touch, he thinks he might physically die if James draws away. From lust or embarrassment; his brain is way too frazzled to decide which.

James seems to come to a decision, because now his fingers are stroking a line down the shape of Kendall through his jeans. Kendall can't help arching into it, can't help the noise deep in his chest when James squeezes before fumbling with his zipper.

It's the best thing ever when James gets his fingers up under the material of Kendall's jeans, through the opening in the front of his plaid boxers. James leans in and kisses the hollow of Kendall's throat, mouth closing around his Adam's apple as his fingers simultaneously wrap tight around Kendall's dick.

It's not enough. It's not even _close_ to enough. Even when James begins to stroke him lazily, his tongue hot on Kendall's neck, Kendall needs so much more.

He fists his hands in James's hair, yanking his head up until he can reach his mouth, until he can crush their lips together desperately. He can feel James filling out in his jeans, those stupid jeans that are so tight that it must hurt. Kendall decides the friendly thing to do here would be to help him out, and he lets go of James's hair, wrapping one hand around the back of his neck to keep him close, to keep his tongue inside of Kendall's mouth while the other starts working open the front of his pants.

The comforter's a pain, tangling around his ankles, so Kendall kicks it off of the bed. James's hand is still working hot and tight around him, but their bodies are pressed together now and he seems to be having trouble moving. Kendall wants to be helpful, so he begins to shimmy his pants down his hips with one hand. He has trouble trying to take his boxers with him, because James still has his palm on Kendall's cock, but after a moment of indecision, James moves it away.

Which is kind of dismaying, but then his hand's squeezing Kendall's ass, fingers creeping towards his entrance, and Kendall can work with that. He worms his way out of his jeans and moves onto James's. James is being mostly uncooperative, more focused on fingering the skin around Kendall's asshole than on getting naked, but Kendall shows him how to prioritize, pulling James's pants and underwear down just enough that their skin can slide together, dicks slick with pre-come.

James dips his finger into Kendall, soft, probing. It's strange, but not unwelcome. When James sees that Kendall's not leaping out of bed, he pushes in a second digit. Slowly, he works his fingertips inside of Kendall's ass, feeling around, stretching. By the time he adds a third, Kendall's bored with this going slow business. He fucks back against James's fingers, because even though the stretch burns, even though it's uncomfortable, when he hits this one angle it's like dry lightning sparking inside of him.

He fumbles for a bottle of lube from his nightstand, conveniently placed because of how much he's been jacking off lately. Chafing: Kendall is not a fan. James stares at him, a little shocked, and Kendall wiggles his butt to let James know that, hi, he's still kind of impaled on James's fingers here.

"Are you- you really want to?" James asks.

"Duh," Kendall says, exasperated. He flicks open the snap top of the lube, gesturing for James to get going already. The face James makes at him is not one that Kendall ever imagined being part of his bedroom repertoire, but Kendall thinks that there's very little James could ever do to make himself unattractive.

Plus James is still moving his fingers inside of Kendall, his other hand busy sliding over his own dick, and yeah. This is good. Kendall is a big supporter of this.

When the head of James's cock nudges up against Kendall's ass, he's not sure how to feel. It's burning hot and foreign weight, and having James hovering over him while he's bent at this strange ass angle is kind of intimidating. The kid's skinny, but he's build like- well, a hockey player.

James starts out slow, painstakingly entering him and no, this part is not fun at all. Kendall figures it has to get better, so he tries rocking his hips down. Which. James growls and nips Kendall's lower lip, pushing all the way in like he can't fucking help himself. It's a sharp sting and a heat storm, all at the same time.

James draws back, and Kendall can feel every inch of him against his skin, inside and out, and then he's back again, fast and hard and shit, it's like electricity and he wants, needs that again, harder. He doesn't even have to say please, because James is already thrusting into him again, and again and Kendall doesn't think anything has ever been this good, not ever.

He digs his fingertips into James's shoulders, breathing harsh. In the shadowy spaces between them Kendall can see James's hips snap, can almost imagine what James's dick looks like thrusting into his ass, and he feels like he cannot possibly get any harder than he is at this exact moment. James's hand is warm on Kendall's thigh, and he shifts, adjusting the angle until Kendall's wondering who painted his bedroom ceiling with stars.

"Kendall," James says, voice needy, his rhythm speeding up. The hand on Kendall's thigh moves to Kendall's dick, stroking along the shaft too slow to match the way James is pounding into him. With every rocking movement, Kendall can feel James's balls slap up against his flesh, dick deeper inside of him than he ever thought was possible and he doesn't get why everyone doesn't do this, just this, all the time. He's clawing frantically at James's shoulders, trying to rock into the callused hand around his cock while simultaneously trying to fuck back onto James, their breathing timed like a song between them. He's distantly aware that the bed's hitting the wall and wow, that is going to be intensely difficult to explain to the rest of the apartment later but who the fuck even cares about that when he's got James hot and hard over him, scorching his insides. He's watching the way Kendall moves with dark, possessive eyes, the hand on his dick twisting faster now, faster.

There's this noise that might be coming from Kendall's chest, it might be his heart or his lungs or his whole body screaming James's name, breathy and helpless when he spills over the edge. Whatever it is, it makes James tense up and seconds later he's shuddering against Kendall, coming long and hard while Kendall shivers through the aftershocks of his own orgasm.

James collapses on top of him with a groan, not bothering to care that he's crushing some of Kendall's vital parts here. Kendall finds that he doesn't really mind. It's not like he plans on using any of them for at least the next fifteen minutes, sore and fucked out but still kind of eager to do that again.

Can they do that again? Will James let him?

Five minutes must pass before James lifts his head, chin resting against Kendall's chest when he asks, "So. Fever gone?"

"Honestly?" Kendall grins, and he feels James's dick twitch against his leg, which probably means he's willing to go at least one more round, if not lock them both in this room for the next week. Which would totally be Kendall's plan if he didn't think Logan or Carlos or god forbid his mom would put a quick end to it. "I think it might be getting worse."

James blinks.

Kendall cranes his neck down to kiss him, and when James doesn't pull back he murmurs, "Cure me?"

James laughs against his mouth and says, "_Delighted _to."

* * *

><p>AN: Please review!


	7. So Black And Blue

**Here, Beneath My Lungs**

_VII: So Black And Blue (Every Time I Fell For You)_

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: Something summery for the fourth of July, guys! The title is a sad bastardization of Bruises by Chairlift. **  
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><p>"Surfing is a state of mind."<p>

"Can we be done now?"

"You aren't in the right state of mind," James accuses, digging his fingertips into Kendall's ribcage. He's trying to teach him how to balance properly on his surfboard. But even on the sand, Kendall's all wobbly and knock-kneed, so James has got an arm wrapped around his waist and another trying to line up his back.

"Sor-ry. That's probably because I'm _concussed_."

They actually went through this entire routine this morning. It didn't end well.

"You're fine."

"Did you _see_ the way the board hit me in the head? I am not _fine_. I am the opposite of fine. In fact, this looks like blood to me." Kendall drags his hand through his hair and proceeds to wiggle his fingers, damp with saltwater and a little pinkish.

James snorts. Kendall imagines that he'd been a little worried the first time Kendall fell, sure. The second time James had mostly seemed to find funny. By the time the third fall occurred, James appeared to think Kendall was doing it on purpose, just to be dramatic.

Kendall sort of thinks James might be right. His balance is just fine on skates, after all.

"Stop being a pussy."

"I am not," he gasps, completely offended.

James tucks his face into Kendall's shoulder so that he won't see the way James can't stop grinning. Kendall is not fooled. He's figured out that James thinks Kendall's offended face is the most ridiculous thing in all of existence. Consequently, he's figured out that James tries to force it into existence as much as humanly possible.

Kendall might sometimes make the face on purpose.

"Then suck it up. Pain makes you stronger."

"Stronger. Great. When I have to be hospitalized, you get to explain the reason why to Gustavo."

"You wouldn't do that to me."

With a wicked grin that James probably can't see, Kendall challenges, "Try me."

"_Sadist_."

"Says the man who won't let me quit this stupid sport."

"Surfing is _not_ stupid. Look, Carlos has a hang of it." James points to where Carlos is riding the curl of a wave like he was born to do it.

"Carlos has no regard for his own safety. If god wanted us to stand on the water, it would be _frozen_."

"You. Sound like Logan right now."

"What? I do n- wait. I do. _See_? _This_ is what you've reduced me to," Kendall exclaims, mortified.

"You could go read with him on the beach. I think his book is by-" James squints and concludes, "Someone who doesn't write in English. Ooh. You can spend your day reading Russian."

Kendall follows his gaze. "I think that's Tagalog."

"Pssh, there's no country named Tagalo. And they say I don't know geometry."

"Geography, James. And Tagalog's what they speak in the Philippines."

"Um, no, that's _Filipino_," James says, because he enjoys being purposely dense.

Kendall's mouth gapes open and shut. He can feel James's jaw move against his shoulder, a shift that feels like a smile. Kendall rolls his eyes. He's understood for a long time that James loves it when people underestimate him. He thinks it gives him some kind of secret advantage, or something.

Kendall thinks James's stupid face gives him a secret advantage, but that's probably not actually so secret.

"You're right. I don't know why I know any of this anyway."

James probably knows. He dated a Filipino girl once. Kendall made it his life's mission to _destroy_ her. She was ruining the dynamic of the band.

What?

She _was_.

"Right, so if the lesson's over, _Wikipedia_, it's time to get back in the water."

"I'd rather not."

"It's this or you break in a new language."

"How about I go buy lunch instead? Hey, Carlos! You want a cornd- mmph.!"

"Don't do that," James orders, hand tight around Kendall's mouth. Kendall can feel the way his best friend's heart is pounding through his ribcage; the rhythm steady against his spine, pressed in tight to James's stomach.

"Mmmmph?"

"He'll fall off his board in his crazy rush to get over here. I'm _not_ spending my beach day in the hospital."

"Mmmph mmmmph mmph."

Kendall waves his possibly bloody hand in front of James's face, trying to make a point about his potential concussion.

"Whiner," James says. Kendall glares at him, sopping wet bangs in his eyes. James laughs and lets him go, watching as he stumbles onto the sand. Kendall considers making a break for Logan, but a quick analysis of what Logan is actually reading makes him change his mind.

It's definitely not in English.

Patient, James waits for Kendall to go through the motions of hefting up his board like all of his muscles have turned to liquidy jello. He does not look impressed by Kendall's theatrics.

When Kendall finally, hesitantly wades into the Pacific until the water's up to his hips, James orders, "Okay, paddle out."

Kendall does, swimming until his arms ache. Once he's pretty sure they're out so far that there is not a single wave they won't be able to catch, he begins to turn the board around. Then the tip of James's board bumps against his side and he hears, "Whoa. What are you doing? We're not far enough."

Stubbornly, Kendall insists, "I think we are."

"Are you the surf master?"

"No. And I am not calling you that."

"Farther," he orders, and Kendall isn't sure how to feel about bossy James.

He swims another twenty feet and then goes to turn.

"Still not far enough," James calls, passing him by. He's got arms made of steel, and his highlights are glittering like old gold in the sun.

Kendall sighs and follows. He wishes he'd asked Logan about the possibility of sharks. Or giant squid.

Or anacondas. Do they have anacondas in the Pacific Ocean? Probably not, but Kendall thinks that would be pretty cool.

Finally, after what feels like a million years, James says, "I think we're good."

Kendall turns back towards shore, pushing up so that he's straddling the board. The coastline looks like a distant white line.

"We're _really_ far out."

"Yeah. Sweet, isn't it?"

"No, but, can they even see us out here?"

"Who cares?"

James is still paddling, he notices. In fact, James is still paddling straight towards Kendall.

He then proceeds to use his momentum to flip Kendall off of his surfboard.

Kendall gulps seawater, sputtering, and oh, James is _so _dead if he ever reaches dry land again. His head breaks the surface, vertigo forcing him to spin around until he can find a fixed point of white sand and palm trees in the distance.

He hopes a giant squid gets its tentacles around James. He hopes a shark bites off of his head, gleaming highlights and all. He hopes that-

"Oops."

"I don't buy your innocent face for a second," Kendall coughs, clinging to the side of his board and still thinking something along the lines of _release the kraken _in James's general direction. His esophagus feels like it is staging a miniature coup against his lungs, having obviously decided that oxygen is not all that important.

"Let's just chill here," James suggests, rolling onto his back so that his body is practically fucking glistening in the sun. Kendall's jealous. His body does not glisten. He never looks like a marble statue.

It kind of pisses him off, so he shoves James off of his board.

That's really what he deserves for being a show off.

When James bobs up out from beneath the surface with a grimace, Kendall decides to educate him.

"One. Treading water is not fun. Two. I think that lifeguard's about to hop on his jet ski to come _save_ us."

"Oh," James tilts his head, but he doesn't look all that interested in the lifeguard who seems to be doing some sort of rain dance on the shore, frantically waving them back in. James looks more like he's trying to get water out of his ear, which is stupid, because they're in the ocean, and he's just going to get more in it. "That could be a problem."

He swims around the side of his surfboard so that the two of them are floating between polyurethane. He wraps his arm around Kendall's waist, pulling him in so close that their legs tangle and their mouths bob dangerously near the water's surface.

Kendall spits ocean and glares at James. "I knew it."

"Knew what?" James asks ingenuously, and no, that is _not_ going to work. Not at all.

Kendall starts to say what exactly he knows, but James stops him with a kiss, their bodies pressed so close and tight and hot that Kendall can barely feel the cold Pacific enveloping him anymore. His tongue goes deep, probing, and Kendall feels really dizzy. It's only when he realizes that they've sunk at least two feet below sea level and he kind of can't breathe anymore than he pushes away, shoving off of James's chest.

When he breaks the surface, he gasps for air. He hears James come up a few feet away, lazily stroking towards the boards that the current is beginning to whisk towards deeper waters. He tows them back to Kendall and says, "Hop on. We're going to have to paddle back before that lifeguard gives us a lifetime ban."

Kendall decides that yeah, James is hot when he is bossy. "Can they do that?"

"Let's not find out. This is the closest beach to the label, and I like coming here on our lunch break."

James pushes Kendall's surfboard over until he's got an arm across the slick surface. Then he uses his free hand to pull Kendall back in close, planting his mouth over his in a soft kiss that still makes Kendall's lips tingle and his possibly concussed brain spin.

By the time that Kendall realizes James has pulled away, his friend's already straddling his board, a cheeky smirk on his lips.

"So what was it you knew?"

"This entire surf lesson thing was just an excuse to get your hands all over me, wasn't it?"

James grins, sunshine and salt water, mischief and the carefree happiness of a day off with the person you love.

He's kind of a sneaky bastard.

Kendall can live with that.

* * *

><p>AN: Please review!


	8. Two Ravens In The Old Oak Tree

**Here, Beneath My Lungs**

_VIII: Two Ravens In The Old Oak Tree_

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: Hey, so this is super short and angsty and I know it took forever to update. I forget to mention that the title for Like The Shotgun comes from the song Get Some by Lykke Li. This chapter's title is from Signs by Bloc Party. **  
><strong>

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><p>Carlos was superstitious. And not about normal things, like spilled salt or black cats or opening umbrellas indoors. He had this thing, where he thought that the universe gave people <em>signs<em>. He made half of his choices based off of whether a blue truck sped past him on the highway or a sun shower tore open the sky.

Kendall never really bought into any of it. He wasn't raised to believe that doing things in odd numbers was somehow luckier than doing it evenly, or that a cracked mirror was going to give him seven years of hell. He'd always been practical.

Until love changed everything.

Kendall had heard people say that, like love was some kind of all powerful cosmic force that could move mountains and dry up oceans. He didn't really get it until it happened to him. And the weirdest part was, he didn't even see it coming. It completely blindsided him.

He spent eighteen years of his life blissfully unaware that the thing he felt for James was anything more than a mix of close friendship, competitiveness, and a subtle appreciation for good looks. Right up until the two of them downed a bottle of vodka on the roof of the Palmwoods, and he was faced with James, a little bit teary eyed and more than a little bit beautiful saying, "I can't do this. I love you."

And Kendall had found himself saying, "I love you too," before he even had time to realize it was true. That he didn't mean it the same way he did when he said those words to his mom or Katie or Carlos or Logan.

Ever since that moment, Kendall had devoted himself to loving James, whole heartedly. Because once he knew, why would he ever want to let that go?

Turned out, James didn't plan on giving him a choice.

They got in this argument. It was awful.

James was about to head off on his first solo tour. Kendall wanted to come with him, but he couldn't. He had his own thing now, post BTR. He had college and hockey and grades to keep up with. He tried to tell James that he knew he had to go, but that he was just- sad about it. That's it. He just wanted to tell James he was going to miss him.

James exploded. Somehow they ended up screaming their heads off.

"You don't get it. I just don't like being away from you," Kendall yelled. And James didn't get it. He couldn't get it. He'd grown up in a family where his parents did everything they could to be apart, even before the divorce. James had been traded back and forth like a bartering chip between them. And Kendall told him that, trying to help him see that the way they'd grown up was different.

That the way they felt about _being alone_ was different.

Kendall never figured out where he went wrong; which word had been a misstep. All he knew was that James started shouting at him, "What would you know? At least my dad didn't leave."

Kendall's heart felt like lead in his chest, and for a moment; just a second, he hated James. And James must have seen it in his eyes.

"You're right," James barreled on, "I don't understand your drama. I don't understand why you won't just- act like a normal human being with people outside of the band. I don't understand why you won't just _let me go_."

James was breathing hard, but his voice had cut off. He'd stopped yelling, but the words he'd said were still heavy in the air. Because he hadn't meant let him go _on tour_.

"What?" Kendall asked, his voice barely a croak. "That's what you want?"

"I- yeah. I guess," James said, and he nibbled his lip, for the first time since the fight began looking uncertain.

Kendall searched his face, searched his eyes for some kind of sign that he wasn't serious.

But then James looked away. He said, "I don't want to be with you anymore. We're not happy."

_Liar_, Kendall thought.

"We haven't been happy for a long time."

_Liar_. Where was Kendall for this stretch of time? Because he didn't remember an absence of happiness. They argued, but- it was never so awful that they didn't make up within a day or two. Never. Not once.

He tried to think back, to remember if there was something he'd missed. To remember if James had ever seemed anything less than content.

There was nothing.

When he looked at James, there was nothing. James shoved his hands in his pockets, rueful. He walked away. He didn't even say goodbye. And then it was over.

Kendall didn't remember anything ever hurting so badly.

Not even the day his dad left.

* * *

><p>Sometimes, Kendall would be thinking about James for no reason. It would be a lazy Sunday, and the things he missed most about the boy were on his mind. And then, like magic, James would call. For the first time in his life, Kendall thought those little psychic flashes had to <em>mean something<em>, even if their conversations were terse messages that didn't mean anything at all.

* * *

><p>On Kendall's twenty first birthday, he was turning over a white v-neck shirt he'd stolen from James in his hands. At that exact minute, James texted him.<p>

Happy Birthday.

Kendall knew it was stupid, but. It had to mean something.

* * *

><p>Later that same year, a Pakistani fortune teller at a fireman's fair told him that he was already married to his soul mate. She told him the exact date the blessed ceremony occurred, and it was a night that Kendall remembered so clearly, James's face and a haze of vodka.<p>

He didn't believe in this fortune telling shit, but the woman was using star charts and the time of his birth and all this other freaky real life data. She had no way of knowing the date of the first time that James told him that he was loved. No way.

She couldn't have known.

So Kendall decided to believe. Kendall decided to wait.

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><p>When he was twenty two, he found a four leaf clover on the same day that James's album went platinum. He thought it was a sign.<p>

So he waited.

* * *

><p>He'd see James in a crowd, or a boy who looked just like James, and Kendall would wonder if the heavens were taunting him.<p>

It always happened. He wouldn't have James on his mind at all, and then some random stranger would call out a name. It was always _James_. Always.

* * *

><p>As a joke, when he turned twenty three, Kendall let Carlos persuade him to get his tarot cards read. He was told that his true love would return. Maybe the woman just saw the desperation in his eyes.<p>

But maybe not.

So he waited.

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><p>Kendall was twenty five when he moved back to Minnesota. It was the warmest winter the state had seen in years, but he told himself, "If it snows, James will come back. If it even flurries, James will come back."<p>

He said the words over and over like a prayer.

It snowed that night.

James didn't come back.

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><p>When he turned twenty six, Kendall decided to stop believing in signs.<p> 


	9. Civilian

**Here, Beneath My Lungs**

_IX: Civilian_

By: Jondy Macmillan

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><p>There are days when Kendall can't handle everyone knowing his name.<p>

Days when he wants to forget about his smile and his voice and his unending self confidence; all those things that have landed him on countless teenage girls' walls. Days when he wants to revert back to the Midwestern hockey player, the skilled athlete with a dream.

Days when he just wants to be _normal_.

Everyone knows his name, but not everyone knows who he is. The whole world knows he likes hockey, but there's only a handful of people who know that he's good enough to have gone pro. The whole world knows he likes waffles, but there's only three or four who know he likes to smother them with whipped cream and strawberries and syrup. Yet strangers see his face and listen to his interviews and think they can see what lies inside of him. It's startling, how angry that makes him, sometimes.

He doesn't usually get the opportunity to express it, to ever act like an actual human being between touring and working in the studio; the countless talk shows and magazines that want a piece of him and his three best friends. Free time is a luxury now. When he has it, he usually spends it sleeping or at the rink, trying to remember the things that make him Kendall Knight.

Because it's gotten so bad that occasionally even he forgets.

He really does appreciates the superficial adoration, most of the time, but on stifling summer nights like these, he just wants to disappear into the crowded clubs. He has these fantasies about hooking up with a stranger, about foreign hands creeping across his body and a mouth that doesn't know his name.

Miracle of all miracles, tonight Gustavo lets him go. Something about dogs and barking and- well, Kendall doesn't really listen to the reason. He bolts so fast that Logan, Carlos, and James are left staring at the dust he stirs up in his wake.

He goes to the shadiest bar he can find; far enough into the ramshackle, dangerous part of city that even the hipsters don't dare to enter. The place is populated by some tough looking guys with tattoos, a handful of rowdy college kids and some old time alcoholics. Kendall props himself on a stool, baseball cap tilted low over his eyes, clutching a glass of beer and thanking every deity he can think of for this blessed night off.

It's been so long since the last one that he's not even sure he knows what do with himself.

Someone else makes the decision for him. Kendall feels a mouth against his shoulder, close to the line of his tank and the place where his collarbone meets muscle. He doesn't react, doesn't turn to look and see who it is. It's just like his fantasies.

He imagines it could be one of those tattooed dudes; maybe the guy with the low slung jeans and the thing that looks like Satan on his bicep. Or maybe it's one of the college kids; a drunken frat boy looking for a night of nameless good times.

Kendall is down with that.

He likes the way his ear is being nipped at, the scratch of facial hair and the rumble of laughter deep in another human being's chest. He likes the kisses hot and wet against his neck and the way he can arch into them without fear of reprimand. He likes the anonymity of dark, seedy bars and the sweat of his glass against his palm.

He's barely had more than a sip, but when he's instructed, "Follow me," he obeys, letting himself be guided by a hand on his hipbone and another, gentle at his back, right towards the restroom hiding in the corner.

They push past couples and coeds, gangbangers and girls too young to know better. They make their way past all these bright young things with smiles who barely even glance once at his face, much less twice in recognition. Nobody screams, "_Oh my god it's Kendall from Big Time Rush_," and he's more than thankful for it. There's damp, thick, hard heat pressing into his ass, and he wants that more than he's ever wanted fame. He wants to feel every inch of that cock moving inside of him. The thought of it sparks low in his stomach.

He lets himself get manhandled into the grungy bar bathroom. The light's a bare, flickering bulb straight out of a horror film, and the door doesn't lock. Every visible surface is covered in peeling, faded stickers from bands that Kendall's never heard of. The toilet's this gaping maw of yellow-brown porcelain, filthy, with traces of vomit lining the rim. Clumps of wet toilet paper squelch beneath his sneakers, and he nearly slides through a puddle of- _something_. The sink is all rusted metal, and when Kendall's shoved forward so that his hands rest against the flat surface, orange flakes off against his skin.

There's no mirror. Kendall likes it that way.

He can feel hands palming the outline of his cock through his jeans, breath hot on his throat and tongue tracing his ear. He moans a little, leaning back into it. He lets the fingers probe through his jeans; doesn't make a move to stop them from unbuckling his belt or undoing the front of the denim. When fingertips circle the head of his cock and a callused hand proceeds to skim down the front of his shaft, it's the best thing he's ever felt.

There's a palm against the back of his hand, fingers lacing with his and squeezing tight while the other hand works over his dick. And then Kendall's arm is guided forwards, tilted up, back over his shoulder and there is a tongue against the pad of his fingers, a sloppy suck at each and every digit. He feels every flick of that tongue, the wet suction against his knuckles. He feels it all pulse through his blood in time with that hand stroking over him.

And then the mouth lets go with a wet pop, their laced fingers brushing against Kendall's neck, trailing against his jaw line until they're probing at his own lips, and he understands that he's supposed to return the favor. He sucks a long, tan finger into his mouth, massaging his tongue against the skin, against scars and calluses and soft flesh.

He tries to make it feel good, to feel sexy. He nips at the skin before he lets go, and does each finger in turn until the hand is pulled from his, satisfied.

There's pressure pushing up against his asshole, and he thinks about the ridges and scars that line the guy's tanned index finger when it slides inside of him, slick with his own saliva. Kendall's hand slams back down onto the sink when a second finger follows, and then a third, stretching him too quickly for it to really be comfortable. When the fingers are replaced by an actual penis, Kendall has to swallow down the instinct to cringe away. Because even if his body isn't ready to take it, there's nothing he wants more.

The way he's entered is painstakingly slow, and it's like he can feel all of the heated flesh inside of him from the slit all the way down to the base. He tries pushing back, building up a sloppy rhythm of his own until he feels hands smoothing down his side, trying to calm him, trying to convince him to slow it down.

There's a mouth sucking hard at his shoulder. Tomorrow he's going to have a mark, a big red-blue bruise that will explain to the world exactly what he's been up to. But he can't focus on that. Most of his attention is centered on the huge hands on his hips, on the way the other man's thumbs are pressing into the ridges of his lower spine with every thrust like he's trying to force the air from Kendall's lungs and make him feel it in his bones. Things are starting to speed up, just a little, but it's a change in angle and the soft grunt in his ear that makes Kendall grip the sink top harder, knees going weak.

He's coming apart here in this filthy, hot mess of a bathroom in the middle of Los Angeles, the noise from the crowd outside pressing into his ears and the boy behind him pressing hot and electric against his prostate.

It's like his entire body's being unlaced, like everything he is, like everything he's ever felt is about to flood out into the arid night. He runs with it, wanton, grinding back in an attempt to fucking impale himself on the head of the cock that's burning inside of him like starlight. He wants to remember this, to remember the way his orgasm is building in his fingertips and his toes, to remember the way it's creeping up his thighs with every slap of skin against his ass.

He reaches back around, twining his fingers in soft hair. There's a lick from the nape of his neck up into his hairline, and Kendall arches into it, into the warm wet mouth and the heat he's sheathed around, the tight feeling in his balls that means he's going to come. He feels the prick of sharp teeth against his skin, hears this grunt that's almost pained, and then, "_Kendall_, fuck-" And one of those hands is reaching around to pump against his dick once, twice.

It's all he needs. He sees black, even though his cum is painting the porcelain sink surface whiter than it's seen in a long time, his voice a shout that pierces the air. Behind him, he can feel his partner losing all rhythm, shuddering against his back and it's a deluge inside of him and a chant of, "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_."

Kendall stays there for a minute, pinned between a body and the sink and sort of basking in it all before declaring, "The door is unlocked."

He cranes his face around to look at James, sweaty and disheveled, a cocksure smile on his lips. He says, "Dude, you're the one who keeps choosing increasingly disgusting places for this shit. It's wreaking havoc on my hair."

He looks like he wants to finger a limp lock, but then makes a face at the rust coating his fingers and thinks better of it. Instead he extracts himself from Kendall, and it's a moment of soreness than he shakes off with a wince.

"Your hair looks great," Kendall says, ruffling it just to piss James off. "But what's up with the mustache?"

James pouts. "I'm incognito."

Kendall grins, leaning in and ripping the _costume_ off his upper lip. James makes this indignant noise that he ignores, circling his arms around his neck and going in for a kiss.

"You knew it was me."

It's not a question.

"You talked. I'm supposed to forget what your voice sounds like?"

James swears. He always forgets that part. He's been trying to hound out a way to find a connection between Kendall's kink for sex in public places and a proclivity for one night stands with random strangers for ages now. Kendall has tried a million times to explain that he'd never act on those fantasies. He doesn't want them. Not really. He just likes the illusion of it.

And Kendall doesn't know how to tell James that he _always_ knows when it's him, not from his voice or his smell or the scar on his finger from that bike accident when he was six, but from the way he touches him. Every single time, those fingers on his skin are as familiar and welcome as his own.

"One of these days, we're going to have a nice, normal date."

Kendall wrinkles his nose. He wants to be normal so badly on stifling nights like these, when work's gotten hard and his schedule is tearing him down. It almost makes him want to up and quit the singing, to fade back into anonymity. To live out his fantasies.

But that has never been an option for him. It never will be, as long as he's at James's side.

Wanting and needing are two different things, after all, and Kendall _needs_ James like the air he breathes and the songs he sings. James is the one person who always remembers who Kendall is, even when he forgets. And James doesn't really know how to do normal.

He can't help it, but he always makes everything extraordinary.


	10. Get This

**Here, Beneath My Lungs**

_X: Get This_

By: Jondy Macmillan

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><p>What happens is, James is trying to prove a point.<p>

He's arguing with Carlos about fantasy football rankings, which he knows little to nothing about, but he is _determined _to be right. If there's anything that James has learned from a lifetime of geek osmosis via proximity to Logan Mitchell, it's that a good argument always has backup in the form of _physical evidence_. So James makes a grab for the nearest phone, which happens to be Kendall's, figuring that he'll look this shit up on the internet, be crowned king of all things ever, and get back to pounding Carlos's ass at Soul Calibur. Only, see, Kendall's phone has got one of those super responsive touch screens, and James's finger slips.

He hits the button for Kendall's text message inbox instead of the internet browser, which shouldn't be a big deal, except that the first message on top of the pile is- swear to god- _I want your dick in me_.

James is more than a little bit confused, because this is _Kendall_, and Kendall is pretty much the epitome of all things white knight-ish and gentlemanly.

Kendall does not have dirty text messages on his phone.

Except apparently Kendall does, because James rereads the message three times before deciding that he has not been hit with sudden onset dyslexia.

James scrolls down the list of old messages, and there, interspersed between brief, normal messages from Kelly, Mrs. Knight, the guys, and even James himself, are these absolutely _filthy_ texts. Every single one of them is from Jo, which is a surprise, because as far as James knew until now, Jo and Kendall haven't really been in contact since she left for New Zealand.

And because, _wow_, Jo has a bit of a gutter-mouth.

James is scandalized, which doesn't happen too often. He stares at the phone for a beat, gape mouthed, and then he starts thinking that if Jo sent Kendall all these dirty messages, Kendall must have replied, right? James isn't sure why, but he really wants to see what Kendall wrote. He waves off Carlos's crowing about how James's confused expression obviously means he was wrong about the rankings and escapes to his room with Kendall's phone clutched in his hand. James flops down on his bed and discovers that yeah, Kendall definitely replied.

There's a whole slew of _I want to fuck you_'s and y_ou're so sexy_'s and _I want your hands all over me_'s, and then some more descriptive texts about what Kendall wants to do with his hands or his mouth or his dick. There's even some super intimate details about the more romantic aspects of his sex life with Jo that James probably shouldn't ever have seen. But he can't worry about that, because Kendall isn't as smart or concerned about phone-hacking as Jo obviously is.

Kendall has sent _pictures_.

Some of them are tame; just artful shots of his face or his body fully or partially clothed. But others- the first time James stumbles upon a grainy image of the red swell of Kendall's cock, James's own dick twitches with interest.

By the time he's found the third shot of his best friend's hard on, James realizes that he's a little ridiculously turned on. He backpedals without thinking about it, re-reading through Kendall's sent messages and imagining his own phone lighting up with the words.

_I want you so bad. _

_God, you're so fucking sexy. _

_I need to be inside you. _

_No one makes me as hard as you do. _

_Let me fuck you, please, please, just let me-_

James has one hand down the front of his jeans before he even knows it's happening. It only takes a couple of swift strokes and James is teetering on the edge, and he doesn't do this; he's the guy who takes his time, who teases girls through their own orgasms before even thinking about himself but-

He's more than a little freaked out when he comes, hot and sticky over his fingers; cum pooling in the hollow places between his knuckles.

James is still trembling through the aftershocks of it when there's a swift rap on the door. He yanks his hand from the front of his jeans, the dark stain of his cum bleeding across the fabric in a really obvious way, and the door is swinging back, the hall light silhouetting Kendall in soft yellow. He asks, "Hey, James, have you seen my…phone?"

Kendall's question gets all pitchy at the end as he takes in James, splayed across the bed, all harsh breath and red cheeks and guilt written across his features, the phone in question clutched in one hand.

"Uh." Kendall's voice breaks a little bit, "You. Um. What-?"

James takes a shaky breath and glances down at the screen, which glows with the image of Kendall's erect dick, and fuck. There is something seriously _wrong_ with him. James x's out of the sent inbox and tosses the phone to Kendall underhand, hoping that Kendall's only skeezed out by the inherent creepiness of finding James alone with his phone in a dim room on a sunny day; and not because he noticed what James was actually _doing_ in that dimly lit room.

Luck is not on James's side.

Kendall takes one look at his cellphone before his gaze snaps back up to James's.

"Were you reading my text messages?"

James thinks he's probably blushing. He presses his lips together and refuses to say anything, because his voice will probably come out in a stutter.

"Dude," Kendall snaps, taking James's silence as an admission of guilt. He takes a couple of steps into the room, and man, he looks _angry_. "Were you jacking off to my girlfriend?"

"I thought you weren't dating anymore," is James's response, and yeah, that was the wrong thing to say. Kendall is on him in seconds, up in his personal space. He smells like sunlight and chlorine, and James spares a second to notice that his trunks are still wet from the pool and dripping all over his comforter.

Then he forces himself to focus on the more relevant situation, which is that Kendall is very close to knocking out a couple of James's teeth, his expression pissed. Voice hard, Kendall demands, "Why shouldn't I beat the shit out of you?"

"Fuck you, I'm not interested in Jo."

"Then what the hell, James?" Kendall snarls, and it's not a pleasant look for him, but it is kind of sexy; even more so when Kendall emphasizes his point by laying his hand atop the messy damp spot on James's jeans. Which he _noticed_. In his mind, it's probably proof of James's wrongdoings.

So basically, Kendall looks more than a little shocked when James's dick twitches in response to the warmth and the weight of his hand. Glaring, James enunciates, "I wasn't jerking off to your _ex_-girlfriend."

He feels like the emphasis on the _ex_ was super-necessary here. Especially when he decides to illustrate his point by fisting a hand in the hair at the back of Kendall's neck so that he can yank him down for a kiss. James figures if he's going to lose some teeth, he might as well make it worth it.

He licks along Kendall's lower lip, pushing his tongue into Kendall's mouth until he can caress along the inside. There's this split second where Kendall jerks back against his hand in muffled surprise, but James keeps his fingers firm along the back of his neck; and then Kendall makes this startled-but-pleased noise and stops trying to pull away.

Instead, his tongue darts out to meet James's, and then his lips start moving, and it's way fucking hotter than staring at a phone screen, because Kendall's hips are jutting insistently against his and Kendall's body is sun-warm; searching for friction while his mouth attacks James's.

The next time he tries to break away, James lets him, because he needs air in a bad way, and because Kendall doesn't seem like he's about to sprint off screaming. Sure enough, he rests his forehead against James's, panting softly, and asks, "Not Jo?"

"Not Jo," James promises.

Kendall's chest trembles against his, and James realizes that he's laughing. He says, "It's still a little creepy."

Well, James can't argue with that, but then Kendall dips and kisses him. Tentatively, he lets himself ask, "So, uh. What _about_ Jo?"

Because she probably won't be okay with James getting all up in her boyfriend's pants, the way he totally plans to.

"The texts are old. I have them locked for, um. Personal use."

James smirks. At least he's not the only perv in the room. Kendall scowls at the quirk of his lips. He pins back James's hands and says against his lips, "Bitch. You need to learn to respect other's privacy."

"Oh yeah?" James can't help the snark that sneaks into his voice now that he's sure his pearly whites are going to stay pretty.

"Do I need to teach you how?" Kendall slides his leg between James's thighs, and even across the thick fabric of his jeans, James can feel the hot intent behind that.

He pastes on his best, most winsome smile and mumbles, "I'm a slow learner."

Kendall pulls back and grins, bright and devious. He says, "I'm probably not the best teacher…but I'm really fantastic at _show and tell_."

James doesn't think he's ever looked forward to any lesson more.

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><p>AN: Please review!


	11. You Get Me Every Time

**Here, Beneath My Lungs**

_XI: You Get Me Every Time_

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: This was written for queenitsy over at LJ, who gave me this prompt: _Ummm. You should write something fast about how Kendall has no ideas what to do for a last-minute Halloween costume, and James makes a lot of not very helpful suggestions, all of which seem to involve Kendall either having to go shirtless or wear very tight pants. James might have an agenda at play there. y/n? :D? _Figured I should post it quick, seeing as it's seasonal!

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><p>Kendall's standing in front of the full length mirror in James and Carlos's room, eyeing his options. One of the absolute best parts of being in a band is that they get to play dress up all the time, and no one gives them weird looks for it. He's worn every costume under the sun.<p>

So really, he should be more creative than _this_.

Kendall drapes each outfit across his body, too lazy to actually change into either. They're so _blah_. He was a vampire last year, and a werewolf the year before. But with the new album so close to dropping, Kendall didn't have time to costume shop this year, and Halloween's _tomorrow_.

"What are you doing?" James asks, barging into the room.

Which is probably his right, seeing as it is _his_ room.

"Vampire or werewolf?" Kendall asks.

James's eyes rake over him, clinical, calculating. "I can't be seen with you dressed all hairy."

"Who says I want to be seen with you?" Kendall scowls.

James rolls his eyes, completely self-assured in his own vanity. "Everyone wants to be seen with me."

Kendall could argue that it's not strictly true, but it would be a lie. Almost everyone _does_ want to be seen with James Diamond.

"Vampire it is then."

"Will you let me bedazzle your chest?"

"Not going shirtless, James," Kendall says patiently. "I'm not dressing up as Edward Cullen. Vampires are supposed to be scary."

"Then your costume blows. Vampires stopped being scary in the 1800s." James snatches both hangers away. "What else have you got?"

"I could be a ghost." Kendall nibbles on his lower lip and eyes James's bed sheets.

James makes a noise somewhere between an indignant huff and a girlish squeal. "You can't cover up your face! Halloween is not about hiding who you really are."

"I'm pretty sure it is though."

"No." James fixes Kendall with his haughtiest bitch glare. "Halloween is about revealing who you are. Inside."

"I'm- not a vampire inside."

"Obviously. You are not nearly fond enough of glitter." James announces, "I'm going to take you costume shopping."

"What? No. That's not necces-"

"_We're going_."

Kendall stares at him in abject fear, clearly remembering the last time he allowed James to take him shopping. But. Maybe this time will be different.

Kendall figures a quick trip to the costume store can't hurt.

Much.

He discovers how very mistaken he is the second he steps in the store. He's selected a handful of costumes that he thinks are simultaneously tasteful and creative, and allowed James to usher him into the "fitting room", which is basically a closet covered by a sheet. But when he starts trying things on?

James shoots down _everything._

"Chainmail is too…bulky," James decides. "Take it off."

Or,

"Harry Potter? Too much robe!" James exclaims.

Or,

"A football player? We don't even like football. Lame."

"How about this?" Kendall grabs a Scream mask that floods with blood.

"Why don't you just put a bag over your face? Geez." James snatches it away and gives Kendall a critical look. "Next!"

Kendall has tried on a hundred costumes. Or at least ten. Whatever. He hates shopping, and he's beginning to get frustrated. James? Is being obnoxious.

"What are you even supposed to be? A space pirate? That's like, barely a step up from space matadors. Take it off. Take it off now."

Defiantly, Kendall retorts, "Space pirates are awesome. I'm beginning to think you just want me to get naked."

"Don't be silly." James retorts airily. "How about _I _pick out some costumes?"

James leaves without waiting for a response.

Less than a minute later, he comes back with about twenty plastic slip covers filled with costumes.

The first one doesn't make any sense.

"Why am I wearing a Hawaiian shirt?" Kendall fiddles with the front, trying to do up the buttons.

"Don't button it! That is not what they do in fair Verona!" He pauses. "We need to get you a gun holster."

"I'm confused."

"Have you never seen William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet with Leonardo DiCaprio?"

"Uh. That movie where they talk weird?"

James narrows his eyes. "I'm going to pretend you're joking. That movie is a theatrical masterpiece."

"I'm not sure a theatrical masterpiece can have Hawaiian shirts and guns."

"Shakespeare wrote the screenplay; take it up with him."

Kendall opens his mouth to argue that Shakespeare died a million years ago and never wrote any screenplays, and then he closes it. Sometimes arguing with James just isn't worth it. "I think this costume is too obscure."

Also his nipples are cold.

"You're right. Take it off." James helpfully helps him out of his shirt.

Only, the next costume isn't any better.

"I'm not comfortable with this many ruffles," Kendall says.

"You look fine. Except." James tilts his head to the side. Then he reaches out and undoes a few buttons so that Kendall's chest is exposed. His nipples get cold again. The store should really turn down the AC. "Perfect. Now where's the hat? And we need a swashbuckling sword!"

"James? _No_."

"Fine," James sighs. "Next!"

It's when James forces Kendall to dress up as a musketeer -licking his lips all the while- that Kendall starts to get suspicious. "These tights are really tight."

"I know. I mean, uh, you're right. Here, try this!"

Kendall frowns at the costume, reading the title. "German serving wench? James, this is for a girl."

"Oh. Um. Okay, how about this one?"

Dutifully, Kendall changes. Next thing he knows, he's standing there dressed in a starched button down that barely covers anything and socks. There is a definite draft getting up in places he does not want a draft to get to.

"James, I've never even seen Risky Business. Have you?"

"No." James makes a rude noise. "It was made in like, the eighties."

"Well then." Kendall goes to cross his arms, but that just pulls the shirt up a little higher. James grins.

Kendall vetoes a skimpy Greek Adonis outfit, a hula skirt, and a Spartan warrior costume before they run out of bags. As they venture back out into the store to search for more options, James muses, "Maybe we could do something with body paint. How would you feel about being blue?"

"You are not painting my body!"

"Shame." James snags a bag. "What about this? Or this? Or this?" He snatches up three costumes in quick succession, moving so fast that Kendall doesn't have time to read the names gracing the clear plastic.

Kendall feels like throwing a tantrum in the middle of the store, except that he's a seventeen year old boy. Seventeen year old boys do not have hissy fits.

Or so he's told.

That information hasn't really reflected his real life experience; James has a hissy fit every five minutes, and Carlos and Logan are prone to their own capricious tempers. Still. Kendall's almost an adult now. He straightens his shoulders, stiffens his upper lip, and tries very, very hard not to punch James right in the middle of his smug face.

Instead he seethes, "I hope this is amusing for you."

James looks at him and shrugs. "It is."

"I'm not a doll. You can't dress me up and-" Kendall doesn't get to finish his sentence because James shoves a new costume right in his face. Kendall's mouth now tastes like plastic.

"Try this one, too," he says helpfully.

Back in the fitting room, Kendall stares down into the first bag. "James. What is this?"

"A costume." James crosses his arms and smirks, all wicked mischief and delight.

That may be so, but Kendall isn't seeing a lot of costume here. He picks up a small black piece of cloth and spins it on his index finger. "Right…what's with the mankini?"

"Chippendale's dancer," James replies, eyes sparkling.

"James."

"Kendall."

"If you wanted me to get naked, you could have just asked."

This inscrutable look darts across James's face. And then-

"Get naked," James draws out the demand, hooking a finger in the front of Kendall's jeans.

Kendall stumbles forward. He was mostly joking, but hey. Kendall's really a go-with-the-flow kind of guy, and James actually looks _serious_. Kendall obediently begins fumbling with the zipper of his pants, caught somewhere between awestruck and turned on.

It becomes clear within seconds that he's forgotten how to work the front of his jeans, made clumsy by the sudden onset of his lust. James bats his hands out of the way, taking over. He pops the button at of Kendall's pants and mumbles, "You sure you don't want to dress up like a stripper?"

Kendall laughs dryly, trying to hide how nervous he is. "Maybe next time."

James looks him dead in the eye, his hand dipping inside of Kendall's jeans, past the fabric of his boxers and twisting across Kendall's cock. He thumbs over the head, and then skims down, palm skidding against the shaft. There's not a lot of grace or dignity a person can muster up when they're giving you a handjob in the middle of a dressing room half the size of a water closet, but James manages pretty well. He's completely one hundred percent focused on Kendall, his eyes sharp and intense. He moves fast, not sparing any time for foreplay, building a quick rhythm that makes Kendall feel weak all over.

Outside, children shriek. Teenage girls coo over slutty fairytale costumes. A couple of frat guys play fight with plastic swords. Kendall can see it every time the curtain flutters, little flashes of life that don't matter- can't matter- when James is touching him.

The friction James builds feels like static electricity. It's half painful, half a pleasurable buzz that Kendall can feel crawling up his spine; making his hair stand on end. Kendall is thrusting up into the tight cave of his hand, desperate not to get caught, desperate to come hot and hard across James's knuckles. Kendall wants to see what his long-fingered hands look like painted white.

James moves faster, getting his wrist behind it. He breathes Kendall's name and flicks his tongue out against Kendall's lips. It's not even a kiss, and Kendall still can't take it. His head drops against James's shoulder, his body stiffening. He comes with a soft sound, choked into the fabric of James's t-shirt, jerking up into James's hand.

There's this odd quiet after, this moment where Kendall can hear how fast James's heart is beating beneath his ribcage and the laughter outside the dressing room sounds muted in comparison. And then-

"James?"

"Yeah?" James is breathing hard; Kendall can feel the press of his dick against his hip.

"I still don't have a costume."

"Oh." James perks up. He doesn't look too concerned about getting off; like maybe he knows that there's plenty of time for it later.

Kendall _hopes_ there will be plenty of time for that later. His mind is already scrambling to figure all the different ways he can make this happen again; all the different expressions James is going to make when he-

"You know what that means? More shopping! I'm thinking cowboy. We'll get you a suede vest and chaps-"

"No."

"Caveman?"

"James, I'm wearing pants and a shirt! It's not up for negotiation."

James pauses. "Sexy police officer? We could get you handcuffs."

"Oka- wait, no!"

James laughs, and in that moment, Kendall pulls him forward for a kiss. Because he's gorgeous, and ridiculous. There's no one else in the world Kendall would let dress him up like a life sized doll, but he already knows he's going to play James's guinea pig for a few more hours at least.

Kendall _deserves_ a kiss for that.

He loses himself in James, in the pressure of his mouth and the slick feel of his tongue.

"You know," James mumbles against Kendall's lips, "We don't even have to go out for Halloween. We could stay in. All night. And then you wouldn't need a costume."

"Oh?"

"…You should probably still bring the handcuffs."

"I'm not dressing up as a sexy police officer!"

"Damn."

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><p>AN: Please review! No, seriously. I'm thinking about capping off this little oneshot thing after one or two more teensy chapters, just 'cause no one really seems interested. It's a lot of work posting here on top of LJ and AO3, man.


	12. October's Got Those Orange Eyes

**Here, Beneath My Lungs**

_XII: October's Got Those Orange Eyes (Pumpkin Spice Haystack Sex)  
><em>

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: Um. Okay. This note's probs longer than the fic. This story is for my bestie, who only reads het Trueblood fic and knows nothing at all about BTR except that there's a nice, tall Jewish boy that I keep sending her pictures of. About a week ago, I was petitioning people on twitter to give me ideas about the boys' sex styles for my Harvestfest prompt. And then this happened...

_D: On a haystack. It's not Halloween sex without pumpkins and hay.  
>Me: ...sex?<br>D: I'm replying to your tweet! Don't be confused. I would say they were carving pumpkins or something. And mutual masturbation on a haystack with pumpkin covered hands...But that'd be weird.  
>Me: Um.<br>D: Your tweet said something about pumpkin flavored sex. You started this. Stop judging me.  
>Me: IT DID NOT. It said how do you think the boys have sex for my Harvestfest prompt. Like...technique wise, not...um. I'm so entertained by your brain.<br>D: Well. This is awkward. :p That's how I interpreted it. I was trying to help. You should still have pumpkin spice haystack sex. _

I fully acknowledge that the last chapter I posted was also about Kendall getting a handjob. Apparently Halloween is the holiday where everyone gets on their knees for Kendall Knight, mm'kay? Don't hate.

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><p>When James was a little boy, Halloween was his favorite holiday.<p>

It's not like James was particularly fond of being scared; he was never the bravest little boy out there. In fact, sometimes he'd get so frightened around Halloween that he'd have to run straight into his mom's arms. The part he liked was that inevitably, she'd be there, in the kitchen, making cookies with jack-o-lantern faces or ready to paint his face like a Ninja Turtle for some trick-or-treating. Some nights they'd curl up on the couch and watch Hocus Pocus, or they'd decorate the scarecrow that would sit out in front of their mansion until well after Thanksgiving.

Holidays were the one time of year his mom would put aside the business aspect of her personality and just…be James's mom. Of course he loves them.

It's different now that James is out in California, though. The seasons never change, and his mom just isn't around. Still, he tries to grab onto that feeling; to keep his childhood from slipping too quickly through his fingers whenever he gets a chance.

James's favorite thing to do was always going pumpkin picking. Which is why he's dragged the guys out to a field in the middle of nowhere. Well. One of the guys. Carlos and Logan are still standing back at the farm while Logan tries to get over his phobia of masked monsters yelling _boo _in his ear. Lame. The yelling is ninety nine percent of the fun when it comes to haunted hayrides.

The tractor hits a rut in the road, which makes the trailer go flying up behind it. A good portion of James's apple cider sloshes onto his jeans. He pouts. Kendall doesn't even notice. Beneath them, the trailer rattles and shakes, metal bones creaking with age. James wraps his fingers around a rusty rail, hay poking holes into his jeans. In the distance, pumpkins loom; bright spots of orange in an empty field.

It's a school day, so most everyone is locked away learning. The pumpkin patch is deserted, except for them, and the creepy costumed workers lurking behind painted scenery; cemeteries and apocalyptic cities, operating rooms and macabre mansions. Occasionally one of the lurkers will spring into action, grabbing onto the side of the trailer in an attempt to incite a scream.

James is way too grown up and manly to scream, but he throws them a nervous smile and creeps closer to Kendall all the same. He's got a death grip on his cider. Mostly from mortification; he can hear the actors' muted laughter as the tractor moves on.

Mostly, James watches the sky. It's an Indian summer. In California, all they ever have are Indian summers. James wants bats and ghouls and witches on broomsticks. He wants ephemeral, spooky starlight that brushes against his skin like the gossamer of a spider web. Instead there is endless blue; one of those fall days where the light is like old gold, touching all the leaves with a brilliant green glow.

In Minnesota, the foliage would be in the midst of turning; fire colors, like an autumn blaze. In California, everything stays green, always.

James misses seasons.

Not enough to go back to Minnesota full time, but enough that all the sunlight is making him grumpy.

"We are getting the biggest pumpkin in the world," James decides, his voice too-loud over the jangling sound of old trailer-bones.

"It's going to be humongous," Kendall agrees, but he's more focused on his phone than he is on what James is saying. James's grip on his apple cider gets tighter.

"You're not listening to me."

"Of course I'm…" Kendall tears his gaze from his phone. "…listening to you. It's just that Gustavo wants us to have these lyrics memorized by-"

"It's Halloween. We have the day off. We are getting a ginormous pumpkin and drinking apple cider."

"But-"

James frowns. Like his mom, Kendall is a part of every Halloween memory James has, going back forever. Of all the people in the world, he should be the one who understands why James loves this time of year so much. And okay, yes, Kendall _likes_ pleasing Gustavo when he's up to it and annoying him isn't simply more fun. They've got this weird father-son complex thing going on that James only half understands, and most times James just lets it slide. But today James isn't feeling super tolerant; what understands right this minute is that he and the pumpkins are being ignored in favor of an old dude.

He wrinkles his nose, his lower lip jutting out in protest. His expression must be ridiculous, because Kendall laughs. "Okay. Okay, no more phone."

That's what he says, but Kendall Knight is obviously a dirty, filthy liar. The next time an actor dressed as a zombie jumps out at them, Kendall barely bats an eyelash, too occupied with the glow of the cell phone hidden beneath his varsity hockey jacket.

When the tractor rolls to a halt, the two of them climb off their haystacks and down into a dusty cornfield, right out of every horror movie ever. Kendall's still not paying attention. He keeps walking, past the pumpkin patch that looms to their left. James hooks a finger in the belt loop in the back of Kendall's jeans, pulling him to a stumbling halt.

"Hey," Kendall says. The tractor hits a pot hole in the distance, making a dull thudding noise. They have approximately twenty minutes before it reaches the farm, grabs Carlos and Logan, and circles back.

"You're walking past all the pumpkins." James tries to sound nonchalant. He doesn't pull it off well; a whine pitching his voice higher than normal. James takes a sip of his cider to cover up the sound.

"Oh," Kendall says, surprised. "We're here?"

"Who are you? _Logan_?"

Kendall frowns, "Uncalled for. But, uh, aren't we going to wait for Carlos and Logan to catch up?"

"Carlos is probably still holding Logan's hand," James says derisively. The haunted hayride was not that scary. "I want my pumpkin. It's going to be gigantic. It's going to be twice the size of my head."

"I don't think they make pumpkins bigger than your head, James."

James lets the insult slide, caught up in the festive Halloween spirit. Besides, it's not like he doesn't already know his head is perfectly formed.

They start making their way towards the pumpkin patch, but barely five seconds pass before James sees a flicker of too-white light out of the corner of his eye.

It's not a ghost.

"Put the phone down."

"What? Sorry." Kendall tries to discretely slip his cell into his pocket. He is not even close to discrete.

"Learn the lyrics tomorrow."

"I don't want to disappoint Gustavo," Kendall admits, shrugging fluidly. He spins on his boot and keeps walking, all long strides and athletic grace. His entire body is framed by autumn sunlight.

James hurries to catch up. "Gustavo can wait."

"That's what you say now. Tomorrow you'll be all like, _Kendall, Gustavo terrifies me_ and then force me to bargain for more time. We could save ourselves all that trouble if we learned the lyrics today," Kendall reasons.

"_Logan_," James says again, because it's the worst insult he can think of.

"Take it back."

"No. Go do your homework." He's sulking. Maybe. A little. Or a lot.

"James, don't be that way." Kendall pokes him in the cheek.

"Don't touch my face. Jerk."

"Don't call me a jerk, jerk."

James doesn't handle irritation well, which Kendall should know by now. And he's really, really irritated. It isn't about the stupid pumpkin or the apple cider or the hayrides. It's about feeling like a little kid again, when the air was filled with goblins and witches on broomsticks; black cats that might speak at any moment and the taste of candy corn on his tongue. James doesn't like that Kendall's ignoring all of that.

Plus, James is so not a jerk.

Which is why he pours his apple cider over Kendall's head.

"_James!_" Kendall screeches, furious. He steps in close, like he's going to do something unnecessarily violent. James pushes him. It's totally self defense. Kendall stumbles back, tripping straight over a haystack that marks the border of the pumpkin patch and landing flat on his ass.

Well. At least now James has his attention. Kendall looks _really_ pissed, as opposed to just wet and violent. James realizes he's going to have to act fast here. So he pounces on Kendall before he can get up and do something drastic, like punch James in the nose.

He's straddling Kendall's chest before Kendall even figures out what's going on.

"What are you doing?" Kendall groans, the sudden weight pressing down on his ribcage impairing his capacity to speak.

"Sitting on you."

"Why?" The skin between Kendall's eyebrows pinches together. He looks like he's seriously considering doing some damage to James's face.

"Because you're going to overreact."

"You poured apple cider on my head and shoved me in the dirt. I don't think murder would even count as overreacting right now!" Kendall yells.

"See, this is what I'm talking about." James crosses his arms, his thighs doing a good job of keeping Kendall's hands trapped at his sides. "You have anger management problems."

Kendall scowls. "I do not."

"Dude. You really do."

Kendall musters up a hateful glare that has absolutely no impact on James at all. He's too busy looking around the pumpkin patch, which is just as desolate up close as it was from the trailer. There's absolutely no one here.

James isn't really sure why he does it. Maybe it's the sudden press of loneliness on his lungs, or nostalgia for all those Halloweens past where Kendall is woven into his memories; a constant backdrop to every holiday James has ever celebrated.

Maybe James just wants to fuck with him.

There's a boot print by Kendall's ear; evidence of all the people who stomped through the patch before. The wind rustles through the evergreens. And James presses a kiss in the hollow of Kendall's throat. Beneath his mouth, he can feel the flutter of Kendall's pulse, fast as bat's wings.

"James," Kendall yelps, eyes going wide. The leaves on the trees are not on fire, but Kendall is; his hair reflects the pumpkins, all red-orange, and his skin glows golden, and brown freckles are smattered so light on his shoulders that they're barely visible.

He's really beautiful.

Kendall repeats, "James-"

"Shhhhh. Do you want to be found like this?"

Kendall reddens, a flush creeping up his collarbone, pressing light against his neck like ghostly fingertips. "No."

"Yeah you do. You totally do." James exhales, kissing his neck. A bird caws in the distance. James pretends it's a crow. "You kinky bastard."

"I'm all sticky." Kendall whines, but he doesn't shove James away. Which is pretty much all the invitation he needs right now.

"You taste like apple cider."

"Hay isn't comfortable," Kendall continues, but he still isn't moving; it's like he's happy trapped between James's legs.

"Shut up," James says, scooting down until he's straddling Kendall's hips. Carefully, James takes off his leather jacket, making sure to drape it in a bug free patch of hay. He didn't shell out five hundred bucks for the thing so that it could house a nest of fire ants, after all.

Kendall watches him, amusement dancing in his eyes. Or maybe that's apple cider dripping off his eyelashes. Whatever. Kendall turns back to the task at hand and says, "We've got twenty minutes. I could just bend you over a haystack and fuck you."

Kendall laughs, too loud, too nervous; too elated.

"So loud," James huffs. "I thought we were hiding."

Kendall growls, hauling him in close so that he can mash their mouths together; all pent up aggression and clicking teeth. But a few seconds into it, he turns the kiss softer, fitting their lips, his tongue gentle. His eyes have gone all tender and sweet when he apologizes. "Sorry. I didn't mean to ignore you."

"Make it up to me," James suggests. He can feel Kendall's dick against the inside of his thigh, half-hard already. James begins fumbling with his belt buckle. He watches as Kendall's eyes snap down, following the movement. James instructs, "No more song lyrics, no more complaining. The only thing you have to remember right now is my name. You think you can do that?"

Kendall smirks. It's a challenge.

James pops the button on his jeans and slips his hand inside, past fabric. With a wicked grin, he thumbs over the head of Kendall's cock. He teases a little, smearing his fingers with Kendall's precum before he strokes down in earnest. Kendall makes this little noise and squeezes his eyes shut.

"Hey, no," James uses his free hand to tilt Kendall's chin up. "Look at me."

Kendall does, eyes fierce. They reflect that endless blue sky, creating a color that is something like a silvery green. Between that weird, preternatural color and the defiant twist of Kendall's lips, James has to suppress a laugh. It's just like Kendall to hide behind his bravado, even know, when he's got James's hand on his dick in the middle of a fucking field.

The sun is covered in shadow; a cloud, but James doesn't even notice it's gone. Being close to Kendall makes his skin tingle and his mind blank out, like his blood's turning to sunlight and his head's up in the stratosphere. He speeds up his pace. He can hear the grind of tractor wheels getting closer.

The slickness of Kendall's cum makes the rhythm of James's hand turn jerky and loose, but it doesn't matter. Kendall's lips part, a quiet gasp, and then James can feel wet all over his hand. He keeps pumping his fist, watching the shape of Kendall's mouth and the way his supernatural eyes flutter as his body jerks, drawing out his orgasm until he can't any longer.

Kendall lies there, panting, as James extracts his hand and stands, brushing hay and dirt off the knees of his jeans.

"James, what was-"

"Get up," James cuts Kendall off.

He knows what Kendall wants to ask, and somehow the idea of that conversation is scarier than witches or zombies or Frankenstein's monster. Talking about stuff like feelings always is, especially when James doesn't know the what or the why of the thing that just happened. He doesn't know if it's about Kendall or Halloween or the spicy sweet scent of apple cider, still hanging in the air between them.

He just knows he doesn't regret it. James grabs his jacket and folds it over his arm, trying for calm and collected.

"Carlos and Logan are almost here." James points to the tractor rattling towards them. "And we are going to get a _massive_ pumpkin."

Kendall smiles this we-don't-have-to-talk-about-it smile. It's enough for now. James knows the talk will come eventually, because Kendall is a part of every Halloween memory that James has ever made. Because he always will be, way, way in the future, when this Indian summer day is over and forgotten.

But for now, there will be pumpkins, and maybe spookiness and a full moon. For now there is Halloween and a shared secret between the two of them, hidden beneath the endless blue sky.

"Bigger than your head," Kendall agrees.

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><p>AN: Please review! I'll try to post a more diverse chapter next time. :)


	13. If You Haven't Got A Ha'Penny

**Here, Beneath My Lungs**

_XIII: If You Haven't Got A Ha'Penny (God Bless You)_

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: I wrote a Christmas drabble. After Christmas. SHUT UP, IT WAS STILL EPIPHANY WHEN I WROTE IT, OKAY? Um. Yeah, so the note for this is longer than the actual drabble. That is because this is an excerpt from a specific verse you guys haven't seen yet. A loooong time ago, I decided I wanted domestic kames- post BTR- where Kendall worked as a barista while he tried to get through school minus the hockey scholarship he always expected (for whatever reason, his BTR money is either wiped out or untouchable) and he shares an apartment with James, who is trying to make it big, and on their free days they surf and busk for cash and walk their puppy. And eventually there would be feelings, because I don't do established couples. Much more recently, I told Twitter I would write domestic Dak/Logan (blame queenitsy), where Logan proves that he might be a geek, but he is also a hockey player and a pain in the ass. And sometimes they have dinner parties with James and Kendall, who live near by. OH SEE WHAT I DID THERE? Yeah, so both stories are happening. This is officially a side story to that general verse. Title is from Soul Cake by Sting, which is one of my favoooorite Christmas songs. Also it's so short because I didn't have a laptop at the time and wrote it entirely on LJ. D: Which is hard.

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><p>James's arrival is heralded by squeaky hinges and the distant thunder of waves.<p>

Kendall doesn't get up. He listens to James set down his guitar case with a muffled thud, his keys jingling as they fall into the bowl by the door. He listens as James kicks off his boots and then pads around the kitchen, rustling bags and shutting cabinets with his familiar, unhurried pace. There is the stick in the bottom fridge drawer and the scrape of Chinese containers hitting linoleum; a shap exhalation when one smells too foul. Kendall hears his name, followed by a curse, and then the bad container hitting the garbage can.

Kendall grins. _Oops_. He's getting better at this domestic crap; he is. At least he remembers to check the expiration date on the milk, now.

The microwave bangs open and closed, followed by the jab of buttons. James is probably going to overcook the leftovers. He always does. Kendall thinks about going to help. He decides he's comfortable exactly where he is. He breathes deep; pine needles and something musty and old.

Optimus figures out that Daddy's home and bounds over Kendall's feet. His puppy-paws are soft on Kendall's ankles; his puppy claws less so. They scrabble against the kitchen tile when he says hi to James, tail a steady thump against everything he passes.

"Hey, buddy," James exclaims, falling to his knees because he is a soft hearted sap. "Who's the best little boy in the whole wide world? Who's my baby? You are," he coos, and Kendall can hear the slurp that means Optimus has decided James needs a bath. The James that Kendall knew in high school would flip; he'd whip out his full skincare regimen of cleansers and moisturizers and toners and who-knows-what-ers, desperate to wipe the saliva off his face. James now laughs, accepting all the puppy love with grace.

At least until Optimus Prime decides that his newest squeaky toy is way more interesting than James; then he discretely stands and splashes water on his face. Some things never change.

Finally, Kendall hears the whisper of feet over the carpet as James comes into the living room. There is silence, and then James nudges Kendall's leg with his foot. "It's dark in here. What are you doing?"

"I like the view," Kendall explains happily. He can almost hear James roll his eyes, but a few seconds later, James is on the ground, sticking his head beneath the Christmas tree too.

"Aren't you worried you're going to get pine needles in your eyes?"

Kendall snorts, turning his head so that he can see; James's face lit by the red-blue-yellow-green of thier lights, a big silver ornament dangling right over his nose. "You have the weirdest imagination."

"I'm not the one laying underneath our Christmas tree."

Kendall looks back up; he can see straight through the branches, strands of lights and too many ornaments and the skirt of the angel at the tippy top. "It's pretty. How much did you make today?"

"A small fortune. Dude, _Santa Claus Is Coming To Town_is a crowd pleaser."

"People like Springsteen."

"...and Justin Bieber."

Kendall makes a face. "Him too. Does that mean I'm getting a super awesome present this year?"

"Uh. About that..."

"You donated it all to the Salvation Army again, didn't you?"

"They're collecting for the children, okay? I can't just let the children suffer," James replies defensively.

"Hey, no. It's sweet." He can't help the chuckle that punctuates his words. Buying James a puppy was obviously a gateway drug. He's getting more charitable and freaky kind with every passing day. He's not exactly ready to cope with a real live kid, but giving away a day's pay for the second time this month when they haven't exactly got a lot of cash to begin with is probably one of the nicest things James has ever done.

He's going to hate himself come New Year's, when he's too broke to buy champagne.

Kendall should be mad, but all he can muster is a weird kind of pride. James Diamond, becoming a better person. Who would have thought?

"You smell like a cappuccino," James says, bumping Kendall with his shoulder. The silver ornament spins from all the movement, throwing a cascade of primary colors in every direction. When Kendall turns to look, he's dizzy with it; with James painted in holiday cheer.

He is a very, very beautiful man.

Kendall can taste James's breath on his lips; spearmint gum and a California sunset. It would be so easy to just do...something. Instead he hums, "It's my new cologne."

"Funny."

"I'm here every night." Kendall shrugs, knocking into a dangling glass green...thing. He's not really sure what it's supposed to be, except that Katie gave it to him when she was in the second grade. The microwave goes off. "Dinner's ready."

James doesn't get up. His chest rises and falls, and Kendall can almost hear him thinking. Then he shifts into Kendall's side and demands, "Tell me the stories again. About all the ornaments?"

"Some of them are yours." Kendall points out.

Like he's jealous, Optimus Prime leaps in between them, a warm little space heater snuggled in the nest of their arms. James makes funny faces and talks baby talk to the retriever, petting his ears and telling him that he's a _good, good boy_. Kendall pets the puppy's spine and tries not to feel like he's just been cockblocked by his own dog.

Over Optimus's head, James gives Kendall his serious business face and says, "You know which ones I mean."

Kendall sighs. "Don't you want to get your food?"

"It'll keep." James smiles and reaches across to ruffle Kendall's hair, like maybe he's the pet that James and Optimus keep around. He makes an indignant noise, but mostly he just feels warm. Kendall points to an ornament about a foot above James's shoulder and starts talking about how his great grandfather brought it back from France after World War II. And then he keeps talking, all the way up the tree, to his mom's high school art class project (a nativity) and their own third grade crafts (a snowflake and a framed picture of the two of them, Carlos, and Logan). The evening stretches on, and Optimus begins to snore, and James shifts his head onto Kendall's shoulder. When Kendall pauses, he says, "Keep going."

Kendall does. It's not like he has anything better to do; it's Christmas Eve. They've got no cash, no family in the area, and no plans for the future. Tomorrow will be a complete blank slate, just like the next day, and the day after that, stretching endlessly off into the future. Sitting underneath the tree with James, recounting his family's history in a hush, like maybe it's a Christmas story in and of itself? Kendall can't think of any place he'd rather be.


	14. Holding On

**Here, Beneath My Lungs**

_XIV: Holding On (For Way Too Long)_

A/N: Prompt for madaleine who wanted virgin!Kendall. Yes, I know I already wrote virgin!Kendall. I'm easy like that.

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><p>James knows that Kendall's a virgin. The guys tell each other everything, and if some pretty girl popped Kendall's cherry, well it definitely would have come up.<p>

But.

See, James knows Kendall's a virgin, but he's always been able to sort of…ignore it.

Like, he also knows that the sky is blue and that bandanas are probably never making a comeback. That doesn't mean he never gets to appreciate a blazing orange sunset or that Bandana Man will ever stop being the coolest super hero in all of existence. It's just meaningless trivia. It doesn't have any real impact on his actual life.

That's all Kendall's virginity is too; trivia. A footnote in the story of the ever awesome Kendall Knight. And, to tell the truth, James secretly hopes it's not even that. Maybe Kendall got it on with Jo and just forgot to mention it to the guys.

It's totally possible.

Probably.

The subject is _so completely trivial_ that James actually forgets about it. Right up until the day they go on a double date. These girls are hot. Like, ridiculously hot. They're supermodel level smokin', the Aston Martins of womankind, and James goes through a whole hell of a lot to score a date with them. So he is less than pleased when girl number one, a bombastic brunette with skyscraper legs and bee-stung lips, starts giving James's date, a blonde with a magnificent rack and a brilliant smile these _we-have-to-go_ signals.

James recognizes those signals. He's got a set of his very own, crafted from years of bad dating experiences. When the pretty brunette with her pretty lips asks Blondie to accompany her to the bathroom for what James assumes is going to be a _leave-now_ speech, he jumps in.

Tact; never James Diamond's forte.

"Not enjoying yourself?" He asks as she daintily places her dinner napkin on the table.

Not that she's using it for anything. Her lo-cal salad doesn't even have dressing on it.

The supermodel crosses her arms, and okay, her rack is pretty impressive too. It's almost distracting enough that James nearly misses it when she says, "I'm sorry. Your friend's really nice, but I can't sleep with a virgin."

Kendall, for his part, has the gall to look completely unashamed of himself. If anything, he's got that expression on his face that's halfway to the danger-zone, part cocky, part pissed. James, on the other hand, is feeling the mortification of those words all the way in his bones. "He's not- you think- what?"

His first thought is Kendall's not a- _oh_.

His second is a timid _why does it even matter_? Their date plans aren't anything fancy; dinner and a movie, and sure, James was hinging on banging the blonde straight into his mattress, but it never even occurred to him that the girls would have the same kind of expectations.

Sometimes he forgets that the fairer sex actually likes sex as much as he does.

His third, much guiltier thought is _how did she know_?

That one gets answered pretty quickly; the brunette swivels her head towards Kendall and glares, which, okay, her snooty bitch factor is doing a really good job of distracting James from her supermodelness. "You're not a virgin?"

"No, I totally am," Kendall replies, completely nonchalant about it. "Guilty as charged."

"Kendall," James gasps, because who purposely sabotages their chances with a supermodel?

"It's not that you're not cute," the girl says, a bit more kindly, "It's just I like my men to be…men."

And okay, that one makes Kendall's cocksure grin falter. The girls leave, and James doesn't even try to make an attempt to stop them. "Why would you tell her that?"

"Because it's true?" Kendall replies, stuffing a roll into his mouth. He's doing a really great impression of a douchebag right now.

"But she didn't have to know that."

"Please, she kept trying to stick her sweaty foot up the leg of my jeans. I'm pretty sure she appreciated the information."

James frowns. Kendall's brandishing his virginity like a shield, scaring away James's super-hot date along with his own. That can't be allowed to happen ever again. He decides, "I can fix this."

"I'm not broken, James. There's nothing to fix."

"I'm going to get you laid."

"Um, no, you're not. I'm not a charity case."

"I beg to differ."

"James, don't." Kendall is pleading now. Kendall barely ever pleads, or begs, or looks at James like maybe he has the upper hand.

James softens. "Why haven't you just- you know. Gotten it over with?"

"It's supposed to be special," Kendall replies, like it's that simple.

James's first time wasn't special. There was no candlelight or silk sheets, rose petals or violin music. There was this mousy girl that he had the biggest crush on during his freshman year. They got it on in the school restrooms during a drama club production of Hamlet.

James really liked that girl. He can still remember the way she folded into him, the blissed out look in her eyes, and how embarrassed they both became when it was all over in practically five seconds. He remembers every second of it and- _huh_.

Maybe it was special after all.

He's quiet through the rest of dinner, even when their waitress tries to flirt a bigger tip out of them. James is too busy trying to think, trying to plan, gears turning in his head. But it's only when they're out on the street in front of the restaurant that he really pins down what exactly it is he wants. Kendall is standing there on the dirty concrete, his eyes glowing neon, like the night that stretches long and loud around them, the din of tourists and starlets and businessmen building into a steady buzz. It makes James's bones hum, and so does Kendall, with his defiant gaze and the hurt, razor edges of his smile. James finally makes his choice the same way he makes most of his decisions; impulsively.

"You know, I could take care of that whole virginity problem for you."

Immediately, Kendall looks scandalized. "Do you even understand half the shit that comes out of your mouth? It's my virginity, not a rash, James."

"No, no, look, I'm serious. What's more special than losing it to your best friend?" James slings an arm around Kendall's shoulders, and keeps it there, steadfast, even when Kendall tells him to _get off_. Like that isn't totally the plan. James says, "I want to take care of you, and- Don't you get sick of waiting?"

Kendall hesitates, uncertainty tainting his features. "Stop messing around."

"I'm not." James grabs Kendall's hand where it is pinned between their bodies, lifts his wrist and kisses his pulse point. He murmurs, "Come on Kendall. Don't you want to fuck me?"

Kendall's mouth drops open, his breath caught in his throat. James takes it as an invitation, leaning forward and pressing their lips together. His tongue dips into Kendall's mouth, exploring, soft. He can taste the Cajun spices that were on the burger Kendall choked down minutes before, but it's not gross. More like…an extension of Kendall, of what Kendall is supposed to be right now.

"James," he mumbles, but he isn't pulling away, hands fisting into the front of James's leather jacket, his heart thudding hard between them.

"Come on, please," James begs into Kendall's mouth, licks the words against his tongue. Kendall's hands travel upward, tangling in James's hair, arms heavy against James's shoulders. His body is wound tight, radiating heat, pressed up against James's like he can't possibly get close enough.

"Okay," he breathes, "Okay, okay, oka-"

James cuts him off with a kiss, harder now, deeper.

Full of promise.

On the way back to the Palmwoods, he walks behind Kendall, watching the way he moves with this boneless elegance that James usually resents, because Kendall doesn't even try. Now he can't bring himself to care. All he can think about is what Kendall's long, lanky limbs look like underneath his clothes.

They lock themselves into the room Kendall shares with Logan, shutting the rest of the world out from their own private citadel. James pushes Kendall back into the door, appreciates the thud his shoulders make against wood. He works over Kendall's mouth, coaxes noises from his throat that are uncertain, happy, a little nervous. Kendall's fingers toy with the front of James's shirt, and yes, James decides he likes that idea immediately. Who even needs clothes? Clothes are obnoxious, and James is of the firm belief that they need to remove them pronto.

He tells Kendall so, and it's almost endearing the way he blushes from head to foot.

"You're cute like this," James says, in close, tasting Kendall's breath on his lips.

"Shut up," Kendall shoves his shoulder, averts his eyes. Then he looks back, like James is magnetic, like the idea of getting James naked is too enticing to actually hold a grudge. James grins and shrugs off his leather jacket, watching Kendall watch him with an increasing sense of how totally awesome this is going to be.

"Maybe-" Kendall starts, and James can almost hear the _we should stop_ in his voice. He takes hold of Kendall's shirt, flashes him a coy smile, and helps him out of it in one easy movement. He drops to his knees, kisses a circle around Kendall's navel, lathes his tongue against the skin until he can feel heat rising off the front of Kendall's jeans. He nips at the soft paunch of his belly, feels the hard muscle beneath it and wonders when exactly Kendall started turning into an actual man instead of the boy-god hockey captain with traces of baby fat. Kendall moans, palms a hand through James hair, and James breathes across the front of his jeans, teasing.

This time, Kendall groans, glares, and James decides to be an ass. He undoes the zipper of Kendall's pants with his teeth, just to show off, thumbing open the button and kissing his way down Kendall's thighs as he steps out of them.

Kendall's boxers are tenting, but he doesn't try to hide it, his luminous eyes trained on James like a trapped animal. James sucks in a breath, because Kendall is sexy, unwittingly hot, and it's not actually fair. He maneuvers the both of them over to Kendall's bed and forces Kendall to sit down so James can just have some _distance_, so he can breathe fresh oxygen and think for a second.

James strips off his shirt as Kendall watches, wide eyed. When it falls to the floor, James's hands deftly work open the front of his jeans. He focuses on the familiar routine, trying to regain some clarity. He can't just hurry through this, get straight down to the action, because this is Kendall's first time. His _first_, James reminds himself.

He's going to be Kendal's first.

Kendall's sitting there, in his boxers, and okay, James is maybe drooling a little bit, because underneath the mirage of pale and scrawny, Kendall really is well-muscled and beautiful, golden hair tracking down his belly and into the blue and white plaid of his shorts. Once James is naked, fully naked, and Kendall's eyes are tracking the red bob of his dick, James steps forward. He thumbs beneath Kendall's waistband, fingertips grazing against the head of his dick and coming back wet with the shine of precum. James pops his fingers into his mouth, tasting it, tasting Kendall salty against his tongue.

Kendall swallows, hard.

James kisses him, charmed by the reaction. He's charmed by everything Kendall does right now, enchanted by the wounded little noise he makes when James tugs off his boxers and kisses the shaft of his dick, tongues over his balls. He is hard and aching for it, a scarlet flush creeping up his belly, branching out across Kendall's collarbone. James's chest rises and falls quick, breath shallow, pulse jumping like a drumbeat in his veins.

He's not nervous. That would be dumb. James has so much experience it's ridiculous. Most of that experience was with chicks, but that's just a minor detail. He is a sex _god._ Just. James isn't feeling super godly right now.

He wants this.

Badly.

Things speed up. They figure out the mechanics of lube and what goes where and that trying to just go at it is not any fun at all. Kendall's got a pretty high pain threshold, but making him hurt isn't what James is going for at all here, and besides, the wince and _owowowow_ James's dick elicits from Kendall isn't exactly setting the mood. He's not used to touching Kendall gently, but he has to, now. James treats him like he might break apart beneath his fingers, soft until he scissors against this place that makes Kendall yelp, a tiny spurt of precum drizzling down the side of his cock. He likes that, likes the way Kendall squirms against him and tries to hide his face in the pillow, shy and embarrassed in a way James has never seen before.

There's not actually anything he doesn't like about this. It's new and it's different and it's Kendall, the same kid who used to coach him through hockey and bandage up his bruises. His own personal hero since before he can remember, and now James will be the standard that he sets every other lover he ever has against. James hovers over him, and his heart bleeds with it, a raw wound in his chest that oozes emotions James isn't used to handling. Kendall cups a hand around his cheek, says _I trust you_, and it's like every defensive wall James has ever built up around himself comes crashing down, dissolves into dust and rust and love and lust.

This moment, here with Kendall, the held breaths between them and the wet gleam of his eyes, feels unavoidable. Like no matter what James ever did, this would always have happened. Like maybe it should have happened a long time ago. His skin is opalescent, cast in the dim lights of the city outside their window, thin enough that James can see the shape of his blue veins. James fucks into him slow, watching the tight line of muscle in Kendall's jaw and the hypnotic green bands of his irises, shrinking and widening when the pain turns to pleasure.

Kendall is wrapped around James, spider limbs and hard weight. His eyes glow in the dark, pupils blown wide and black and sucking him in. The first time James gets him to moan, for real, gets him to throw his head back and beg for it harder, he pouts, insolent. He's not used to losing control, but that's James's goal. He's going to make Kendall fall to pieces, going to make it so amazing that he won't be able to forget it, not ever. He maneuvers Kendall's body to the side, aligns their bodies a different way and Kendall gasps, "James, fuck, _James,_" and squeezes tight around him. He feels unbelievable, and James sheaths himself as far as he can inside Kendall's heat, again and again and again. He sucks against the skin of Kendall's bicep, his collarbone, his pectoral muscles, tongues over his nipples and enjoys the way it makes Kendall squirm and rock back against him. "You're amazing," James tells him, babbling with it, because he's always had this thing with sex where he can't shut himself up. He curses, calls Kendall _a tightass little bitch,_ says that he's _beautiful_, and Kendall grabs him by the chin and kisses James rough and deep. His fingers dig into James's skin, his gaze gone feral and fierce, and James can feel it when he lets go. James's own vision begins to splinter, gold shards that darken at the edges, go off like fireflies spinning out of sight. Kendall is spasming around him, mumbling James's name, an oath that reverberates through James's chest, through his ribs, and down his spine. It makes his balls draw tight, and he warns Kendall before he loses it completely, gone limp and hazy, and Kendall talks him through it, holds him close and strokes down his spine.

When it's over, James hops out of bed, pulling on his jeans because it's the same thing he's been doing for years and years and years of banging willing individuals. He's already started the search for his t-shirt when he notices Kendall, sitting naked in the middle of a puddle of sheets with his legs tucked into his chest.

He looks like a little kid.

And that's when James realizes that this is not one of the numerous willing partners he can screw and just abandon afterwards with a quick kiss on the cheek and an _it's been fun_. This is Kendall. This is his best friend, and it's actually a big deal.

James shrugs out of his jeans and climbs right back into bed. He gets up into Kendall's personal space, snuggling into his side and says, "Hey."

"Hey," Kendall mumbles, and James can actually see his cheeks burn. He looks a little hurt. "Don't do me any favors."

James grabs at his face, caresses his cheek. "I didn't mean to do that."

"Old habits?"

"Shut up." James suddenly feels a little shy. Cuddling isn't really his gig, but he wants to wrap his arms around Kendall's waist, and he does. "How, uh. Was that?"

Kendall snorts. "Not like I have anything to judge it against."

"Okay, dude, seriously. I'm sorry. I didn't mean…" James sets his chin against Kendall's shoulder, pulls him close into his chest until they're spooning. It's super gay, but James figures they're already past the point of caring.

"I know what you meant. I shouldn't have-" Kendall bites it off, and James is really, really scared that he regrets it, that Kendall thinks he gave it away too soon, to the wrong person. And what if he's right?

What if he never forgives James for this?

James says, "Oh."

Kendall turns to face him, rearranging the fit of their bodies, the cage of James's arms. He rolls his eyes. "Now who's misinterpreting? I shouldn't have expected you to give up your routine for me, okay? That's all. It was…" Voice turning small, soft, and completely un-Kendall-like, he says, "Good."

James beams. He is still reigning champion of all things sexy.

But.

He's not sure how important that is, because there's this other question plaguing him, a completely foreign concept that he's not sure how to interpret. "We could probably, uh. Do it again sometime. If you wanted."

He only just thought of it, but obviously, this is a genius-level idea. Kendall's hot, and eager, at least for now, and they could totally make this into a thing. "We could get dinner before, and, you know."

Kendall doesn't look like he does know, actually. He makes a face, his eyebrows scrunching up. "Like a…date?"

Immediately, James objects, "We don't have to call it that."

"You want to date me." Kendall's eyes are dancing with mirth. His smile is wolfish.

"I don't want to date you," James protests.

"You want to fuck me."

"Yes. Definitely," James agrees, already primed for another go of it. His dick twitches against Kendall's thigh, and he smirks, like the arrogant little shit he is. As the sweat cools against their skin, Kendall is regaining back his old leader-ly confidence.

"And buy me dinner."

"No. Well. Maybe." Defensively, James adds, "Food helps stamina."

"Oh, I see." Kendall nods very sagely and obnoxiously. "So you're just looking out for my welfare, because you're such a _workout_."

"Well. I am."

Kendall huffs a laugh.

Heathen.

"Fine, never mind." James buries his face in Kendall's neck and tries to fight the flush on his cheeks. "Forget I said anything."

"No, no, wait." He laughs again, louder, this time. It echoes through the still of his room. "Would we be seeing other people in between these not-dates?"

"Uh. I don't know."

James hadn't really thought of that. Kendall's expression darkens. He says, "I could see what it's like with a girl…"

"No!" James nearly shouts it. There is a hot, jealous thing in his chest, squeezing hard, and it is violently opposed to anyone else seeing Kendall like he just saw him, all desperate and needy and wrecked. It's abrupt and unreasonable and James is completely unequipped to fight it.

He's not accustomed to, you know. _Feeling_ stuff. He hugs Kendall's body closer, buries his face deeper, cheeks burning hotter. Kendall is startled, his eyes crossing as he tries to figure out what just happened. "Or I could stay celibate forever. Except for, you know. _You_."

"I like that plan way better," James agrees, nuzzling the hollow of Kendall's collarbone, arcing up and nipping at his ear.

"Of course you do." He can hear the eye roll, part two. Kendall squirms away from James's tongue, squirms forwards until he's rubbing just the right way against James's dick, and okay, he's really like an answer about that _doing it again sometime_ question. Like, immediately.

He whines, "Kendall?"

Kendall exhales, sharp, and says, "Fuck it. Yeah. Let's-"

James doesn't let him finish. He presses his mouth to Kendall's hard, fingers already tracing the wet circle of his asshole, still slick with his own cum. Kendall kisses back, grinds his hips against James's dick, and James thinks, _fuck double dates_.

It can't actually get any better than this.


	15. Sushi

**Here, Beneath My Lungs**

_XV: Sushi_

A/N: This was a tiny, tiny prompt fill for breila-rose.

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><p>"You've killed us," James moans, clutching Kendall's pillow to his chest.<p>

"Don't be melodramatic," Kendall growls back, like that's even possible for James. Melodrama is where James lives.

"I can feel the life seeping from my bones. This is all your fault."

Kendall groans. It's not like he's exactly walking on sunshine either. His internal organs are staging a full on rebellion inside of him, and its pretty much the most unpleasant thing he's experienced since the time their peewee hockey coach had him do suicides for nearly three hours.

That day ended in projectile vomit. Kendall has a feeling this day might too.

Feebly he grits out, "I was trying to be nice."

"By poisoning me?" James asks, aghast. All Kendall can see over the top of his pillow is the golden jungle cat hue of James's eyes and the sheen of sweat on his forehead. He feels really, really bad. James is obviously even more miserable than Kendall feels, having trouble focusing for more than a few seconds at a time, doubled over from the pain.

"I didn't do it on purpose," Kendall retorts, crossing his arms over his own achy stomach. This is totally the last time he ever tries to be a good friend.

"You made me uncooked fish!"

"I made you sushi! You _like_ sushi!" Kendall protests. But okay, he is in the wrong here. How was he supposed to know that sushi grade tuna was the only kind of tuna he was supposed to use? The dude at the fish market said the kind Kendall bought would be fine, and Kendall didn't want to stand around questioning him. Not with all those googly-eyed sea creatures _staring_. He hugs his arms tighter to his ribs.

The only thing James despises in the whole wide world more than harem pants is being sick. It makes him belligerent, and in this particular case, Kendall is the perfect scapegoat because their painful cases of food poisoning really are his fault.

"I don't like _dying_," James wails, and ugh, Kendall hates fucking up this bad.

There are times when he enjoys raising a little hell in James's picture perfect life, but this time all Kendall had wanted was to make him smile. James had come home last night beaming because he'd landed his first real full body modeling job. And Kendall just really likes it when James is all lit up like that. It makes him feel warm inside, and, well. He thought maybe if he planned a celebratory dinner of James's favorite spicy tuna rolls, hand made and everything, James might wear that gorgeous, happy grin of his a little longer.

The plan backfired. Gloomily, Kendall says, "I'm sorry."

James's eyes get really wide. He panics. "_You're _apologizing? Isn't that a sign of the apocalypse? Wait, are you about to croak? Don't go into the light, Kendall!"

Kendall rolls his eyes.

"I'm not going anywhere, doofus. We'll be fine. Eventually." He winces, because his kidneys feel vaguely like they are bleeding out. Maybe James isn't being completely melodramatic. A trip to the hospital could be in order. "Just. I didn't mean to mess up your night. Next time I make a congratulations dinner, you're getting easy mac. Promise."

James stares at him from behind the safe haven of the pillow, his mouth and nose still covered. Kendall is having a hard time reading his reaction. He shifts uncomfortably.

James asks in the strangest voice, "Kendall?"

Kendall nods, certain he's about to get a weak punch to the jaw. James probably _just _realized the photo shoot is tomorrow morning and that there's _no way_he's going to make it. He squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for impact.

Only when James leans across the pillow bridge between them, it is to press his lips soft against Kendall's. His mouth is hothothot, the slightest touch of his tongue like a lick of fire.

When James pulls back, only millimeters between them, he murmurs, "Thanks for dinner."

Kendall stays stock still, stunned, breathing the air James exhales. He feels feverish. "You just- but- _What was that for_?"

James shrugs, and he almost manages that smile, the one that got them into this mess to begin with. It makes Kendall melt inside.

Then James says, "I figured I should try it once. You know. Before we die."


	16. We'll Tell You When They're Hungry Again

**Here, Beneath My Lungs**

_XVI: We'll Tell You When They're Hungry Again_

A/N: I'm a bad person and took down a bunch of chapters to reupload them as a cohesive series. I promise I'll stop doing that. To make up for it, have shoddy smut.

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><p>"I look ridiculous."<p>

"You look like a sexy tribute from District Four, which is the point."

Dubiously, Kendall stares at himself in the mirror. "Yeah, no, I am so uncomfortable with this."

"You said that about the time we played Snow White and the Seven Sluts, too."

"That's because some of us aren't used to having orgies in our bedrooms."

"Which is a flaw in your life that I plan to rectify with great frequency, now shush. You're supposed to be charming the pants off of me."

"Because that's so hard."

"I am not the gigantic slut in this scenario," James objects primly, brushing imaginary dust off of his simple black slacks. He looks good, all monochrome except for the subtlest line of liquid gold accenting his eyelashes. Kendall wonders which of the female residents of the Palmwoods James nicked the eyeliner from or if it's straight from his personal stash.

It suits him.

Meanwhile, Kendall looks like he aspires to be a merman. He twirls the plastic trident in his hands, nervous. He's not so great at this role-play thing, preferring to simply be himself. But it does get kind of hot once they get going, and he loses himself in playing pretend; dismissing the hockey player from Minnesota in favor of the character James wants him to be. It just takes him longer to slip into character than, say, Logan, who can adopt a bad cop game face in seconds, or Carlos, who never really stops with the make believe.

His nervousness must show. James reaches across the space between them, his long-fingered hands warm and familiar from the ridges of his knuckles to the burn scar from the first time they attempted to cook up a grilled cheese when they were five. "Hey, relax. I'll walk you through it. Just have fun. And smile."

James chucks him under the chin, flashing his own pearly whites. Kendall takes a deep breath, holds it for a beat, and then exhales, nodding. He meets his own gaze in James's full length mirror, steely, determined. "I'm ready."

"Great. Assume the position."

Immediately, Kendall begins fumbling with the waistband of his spandex pants, trying to figure out how exactly to get the dratted things off. James makes a 'tsk' noise.

"Not that position. Not yet." He smirks and instructs, "Slip into character."

Kendall's hands still. "Okay. Uh. Who am I again?"

"Finnick Odair: boywhore." James makes this strangled sound. "I can't believe you haven't read the books yet. It physically pains me, Kendall."

"I've been meaning to! But they have a lot of words." He makes a face. "And I've been busy trying to manage...you."

James pouts. "Carlos and Logan too!"

"...But mostly you."

"Kendall, they're easy books. They have blood and gore and explosions. _I've_ read them. And Carlos too!"

Kendall sighs, very put upon by the burden of reading. "I'll get to them eventually. Besides, Katie won't lend them to me. She's still mad about the time I accidentally dropped Twilight out a window."

James snorts. "The window of a moving vehicle. On the Pacific Coast Highway. Sure, _accidentally_."

"Those books were really bad. Her brain was rotting!"

"Alright, don't think I don't see you stalling." James places his hands on his hips, dishing out his best sassy frown. Sternly, he continues. "We'll discuss your illiteracy once you take care of this."

He points to the front of his pants, where the dark fabric is tenting, slightly. Kendall's mouth drops open. "How are you already hard? All we've been doing is talking about some stupid books."

"A, have you seen yourself in spandex?" James demands. To be an ass he tweaks one of Kendall's bare nipples. "You're sexy."

Be that as it may, half naked boywhores don't exactly call up images of explosions and bloody death, at least not to Kendall. He feels like James is probably making this character up. He shivers all the same.

James barrels on, "B, they are not stupid! They are full of wonderful...ness...they have the best words of all the words."

"Logan is rubbing off on you." Kendall pauses, considering. "Are you sure you don't like this series because Logan let you rub one off on him while he read them out loud?"

"Don't judge me, you watch Carlos fellate corndogs and then bang him on the dining room table."

Kendall quirks an eyebrow. "And you don't?"

James blanches. "At least I wasn't jacking off while Logan read Narnia. Oh yeah, he told me about that. I know you have a thing for Aslan."

"I don't- that's not-" Kendall stammers. But, naturally, James takes everything in stride, like the little sexual deviant that he is.

"No worries, I've got some furry costumes around. But those are for later." He smacks Kendall's ass. "Right, now may the odds be ever in your favor, bitch."

So, Kendall really has no idea what the fuck he's doing, but he tries to stand up straight and hold his head high. Earlier, James gave him a quick rundown of who he's supposed to be, but other than _boywhore_ and _tribute_, Kendall wasn't paying much attention. Mostly because James had looked hot, even when he was in the midst of costuming himself, but also because James had suggested Kendall rub his body with sushi to add to the realism.

Talking James out of that had been a chore and a half.

Still, Kendall has the vaguest recollection of a script, and he obediently walks over to the door. He does not venture put into the hall like James wants for fear of actually being seen by a real live _sane_ person. James frowns, prettily. Kendall ignores it, pretending he really is outside the room. He knocks light against inside of the wood.

Let the games begin.

"Hi, um." Kendall scrapes his teeth over his lower lip, painfully self-conscious, already sure that he's doing this wrong. The plastic of the trident is slick from his clammy palm. It always amazes him how James can gather everything that makes him James and tuck it deep down inside himself, turning it invisible. He _is_ his character, the quiet stylist with the rebellious streak, in the blink of an eye. Kendall says, "My stylist is- I mean, I'm-"

This isn't working.

He feels dumb.

James catches him in his gaze, gone leonine and unfamiliar with the gold eyeliner. He doesn't twitch, doesn't betray anything at all, so Kendall focuses on that burn on his hand, a part of James that can't be hidden away. He reminds himself how excited James was when he came to him with the idea.

James wants this.

Badly.

Kendall takes a calming breath. His voice turns strong.

"I wanted to meet you. The man who lit the girl on fire." What? Just because Kendall doesn't like to read doesn't mean he can't use Wikipedia. Or watch movie trailers. "I'm Finnick."

He extends his hand, trying and probably failing to look coy. He would make a terrible boywhore.

"I know who you are. A victor." James says, all grave, and shit, Kendall cannot do this. It's going to hurt James's feelings if he laughs in his face. He absolutely _cannot_; Kendall will end up with blue balls for weeks.

Okay. For the sake of his balls, Kendall tries to concentrate.

He is a prostitute. He is a murderer. He is a rebel.

Fire flickers in James's eyes, and Kendall doesn't know if it's a character thing or if James suspects he's about to have a nervous meltdown. It doesn't matter. Kendall _is_ Finnick. He is brazen. He is dauntless. He is stuck between a rock and a hard place, which actually isn't a far stretch from the insanity of his real life, of trying to hold onto himself and his best friends in the middle of Hollywood. That's half the reason they play this game to begin with, finding comfort in each other as opposed to colder, more dangerous places.

He walks in close, curling his hand around the back of James's neck and murmuring, "So my reputation precedes me."

James pulls his head back, out of Kendall's reach. He sits back on the bed and says, "I'm not interested in that. _Victor_."

Kendall suppresses a snort. Sure he's not. The shape of James's dick is clear through his slacks. Kendall forces the humor out of his voice and remembers the script. He tries for anger, barely contained. "I'm not a victor, anymore. I'm a tribute."

He thinks he's supposed to say something about a _quell_, but his Wikipedia search was not actually that extensive. Carlos really wanted to play video games this morning, and Kendall had honestly been hoping James would let him get laid the normal way.

"And what an honor that is," James, no- _Cinna_- says, all sardonic.

Kendall smiles his hockey smile, the intimidating, feral grimace of a thing he wears for the benefit of opposing reams. "I hear you like politics."

"I find them abhorrent," James replies calmly, his lion's gaze sharpening.

Abhorrent is a big word. Three whole syllables. Somebody has been making Logan read them big boy books.

Kendall slides into James's lap, easy, fitting the same way he has since they were fourteen and fooling around with shaky hands, hornier than they knew what to do with. "Shame. I heard you were the man to talk to if I wanted to make new friends."

James shifts beneath him, not breaking character, but definitely interested. He loops one of his arms around Kendall's waist to keep him from falling off the bed. "You heard wrong."

"Are you going to tell on me?" Deftly, Kendall presses the edge of the trident into James's throat. It's just plastic, but James is someone else, has become a man with things to lose that Kendall doesn't entirely understand because he went the way of Cliffnotes. Oops.

He almost wishes he did know what was going on, what the weights and measures in this game are. He plays rebel spies from Star Wars sometimes, usually with Carlos, and once with Logan. Once because Logan is completely incapable of sneakiness. But anyway, that's the character he adopts now, striking up discord, bravely facing death, and so on and so forth.

Kind of like how he is around Griffin every time they interact.

James leans into the trident, just a little, choking a sound out of himself from the press on his windpipe. Kendall snatches it back. James likes all kinds of kinky things, but he's pretty sure he can only handle one fetish at a time. When Kendall meets his eyes, all James does is smile and hold his head a little higher. He is graceful, classy in a way that he rarely is outside of photo-shoots and fancy dinners. "Why would a nice boy like you want to get mixed up in Capitol business? Don't you have people you want to protect?"

Uh. Yeah. Kendall does. He's got Katie and his mom and the boys, his brethren, his sometimes lovers, his constant supporters and biggest fans. But he's got a feeling Finnick doesn't. He remembers reading something about a girl, but to be honest it's hard to concentrate on the idea of glossy lips and shiny curls when James is sitting there, gold flecks in his irises, expectation clearly written across his features.

"I want to help." Kendall isn't sure what he means. He wants to help the cause, whatever it is, he wants to help James get off, and he is just really interested in being helpful. And naked. He shifts on James's lap and moves his hand to brush James's hair from his face. He tilts his wrist in so that James can smell his cologne, which is not Eau de sushi, but James picked it out, so it must be good enough. He tacks on, "Besides, I'm not very nice."

James breathes deep, tongue darting out to touch Kendall's wrist, to lick at his pulse point. Kendall squirms, rutting his ass against James's dick, trying to turn it into a tease, but mostly just wanting to move this show along. "How do I know I can trust you?"

Oh. Well. That's easy. Kendall presses his mouth to James's, making sure his lips promise all kinds of wickedness. This is more familiar ground, and he bites kisses into James's lips, moans as James cups his ass and pulls him against his dick so that they are connected, for a second, electric energy that would be so much better without clothes.

James can't drop the act. He tells Kendall, "It's dangerous," and at first Kendall wants to smirk and say that he can handle danger, and he does. Then James says, "No. It's _dangerous_," in this voice that brooks no argument at all. He stares at Kendall, really stares, deep and soul searching, and something in his eyes makes Kendall feel like his life really is a tragedy. Useless panic actually wells up in his chest, like he's walking on the edge of a razor and he can never escape some big bad fate.

James is doing what he does best; selling it.

He says things about families with mouths to feed and children dying and Kendall is upset, now. He's still turned on by the lines of James's body beneath him, but he feels like the world outside this bedroom is filled with monsters that he is not wholly prepared to fight. He whispers, "I can handle it," but his voice comes out broken, like he's been chewing on shards of glass.

"Can you?" Cinna asks, and he is not James at all.

Kendall assumes a mask too, serious, mocking. He shoots back, "Aren't I a victor? I can survive anything."

He licks out at James's earlobe, sucking it into his mouth, licking up and tracing his tongue around the elegant curve of James's ear.

"We'll see about that." James inclines his head. "You've misplaced your handlers for the night?"

He's polite, almost indifferent. He's putting all his Brooke Diamond instilled etiquette to use.

To get into Kendall's pants.

James's mom would be so proud.

"They've all gone to sleep." Kendall cocks an eyebrow. He leans in close, letting James admire the indents of his collarbone, the stretch of skin across his chest. James's gaze settles somewhere around Kendall's left nipple when Kendall purrs, "So handle me."

Purring is weird. But whatever, James likes it. He flips them, pinning Kendall back against the bed. James rubs his thumbs from the skin beneath Kendall's navel all the way down to the line of his stupid spandex pants, dipping inside, brushing over flushed flesh of Kendall's cock. James snatches his hands away, tugging at the waistband of Kendall's pants. "These don't suit you at all. I have something else you can wear."

Kendall muffles a laugh, unable to help it. He shimmies out of the atrocious, binding pants while James hovers patiently over him. Once he's naked, James touches Kendall's lips, neglecting the rest of him, but it's cool. Kendall gets it. James is really, really obsessed with his mouth.

He always says Kendall has cocksucking lips.

Blowjobs weren't really in the game plan, though. Kendall fists his fingers in James's collar, pulling him down so that he is covering Kendall's body. He ruts into his thigh and says, "So are we rebels, yet?"

James swats at him, but it's Cinna who growls, "You're not taking this seriously."

"No, I think I definitely am," Kendall replies, voice low, his ninja-fingers working open James's black shirt. He likes this whole black thing, likes the classic look and the regal edge it gives James's features, but James is always really better when he's not wearing anything at all. He rolls them again, straddling James's thighs. Kendall opens the clasp on James's slacks, careful in pulling down the zipper. Can't be too eager, if he's an experienced boywhore.

But really, this is the part Kendall's been looking forward to all night. He's already equipped for it, ass still loose and wet with lube from before he slid into those ridiculous pants, and all he has to do is slick _Cinna_ up once, twice and he can- he canhe_can_- there. Kendall's positioned James dick up against his asshole, and he teases, sliding it wetly between his cheeks just to watch James flush, whine, buck his hips. Kendall sinks down at the same time that James is pushing up, seated inside him in one long slide. Perfect. Kendall likes being on top, likes fucking himself onto James while James watches it, greedy. He likes the bruises that James presses into his thighs that he finds the next morning, that he touches a thousand times throughout the next day to remind Kendall that they're still there. James is gripping him now, urging him to move with a quiet, restrained kind of patience that he only ever undertakes for _serious roles_.

Kendall decides it must be killing him. He stays in character, making a show of it, rising up off James until he's just got the tip of him inside, pulsing, and then driving his hips back down in this slow undulation. James's lips gape open, closed, just like a fish out of water. Kendall runs his fingers across James's chest, tweaks his nipples and uses his nails to scrape light down his ribcage. James grabs at his hand. It takes a few tries before he actually catches it and brings Kendall's knuckles to his lips, all charming. Like they're courting or something.

Kendall isn't sure what to do with that, with random moments of tenderness that may or may not be part of the act. He doesn't try to decipher it. He bobs up and down, getting his entire body into it. James is thick, hard, wet on each down stroke. He keeps looking at Kendall like he's god.

"You're good at this," James gasps, and he has to be close; there's too much snark in his words, too many implications for him to stay Cinna.

Unlike Kendall, who is totally professional when he wends his hips from left to right, testing, rolling, and says brightly, "Practice makes perfect."

James's eyes flutter shut, lips moving. It looks like he is mumbling curses. He positions both his hands on Kendall's hips, nails biting into bone, stilling him. Kendall wiggles around, trying to regain control, but when James opens his eyes it is to deliver a dark look. He thrusts up slow, fucking into Kendall like he's got him pinned down, when really, the only thing around is air. He's hitting Kendall just right, making his chest feel tight, his heart too big, his stomach too tight. James is watching him with those jungle cat eyes of his, pumping into Kendall again and again until he can't quite keep a grip on who he is anymore.

Kendall comes, totally untouched. He stripes white across James's chest, leaning back on his heels so that he can feel how deep James is buried in him. James tries to force him to move, hitching his hips up and down while Kendall mostly just trembles, but that's totally fine.

"Fuck, Kendall," James hisses, letting go, pumping his hips erratically as he shoots off inside him. Kendall arches forward and rests his head against James's, trying to press his body in closer, to make it better, somehow, because he always wants things to be better for James.

He waits until it's over before he flops off of him, allowing James to tangle his spider limbs around Kendall and rest his head against Kendall's chest. They lay there for a few minutes, listening to each other's breath calm.

Then there is a yell that pierces the still air, loud, even over the sound of Kendall's thunderous heartbeat in his ears. "What was that?"

"I think Logan and Carlos are playing Peeta, Katniss, and Gale."

"But there are only two of them."

James sighs contentedly, 'Yeah."

"I don't want to know." Kendall runs his fingers through James's hair, pulling him closer. "Are we still playing The Hunger Games?"

James perks up, intrigued. "What did you have in mind?"

"Just. I'm from a District by the ocean, right? I can hold my breath for a really long time," Kendall promises, which is really mostly true.

"We're going to have to test that out. Practice." James slips right back into his Cinna persona, the perfect poker face. "Wouldn't want you to drown in a puddle during the Quarter Quell. What kind of show would that be for Panem?"


	17. Forever And After

**Here, Beneath My Lungs**

_XVII: Forever And After_

A/N: This was written for jblostfan16's birthday. She wrote BTAvengers for her Big Time Bang Entry, and I wrote this around the same time inspired by her. But it's not based on that fic because I hadn't read it yet at the time (it's excellent, over on Livejournal, go check it out)._  
><em>

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><p><em>My dearest<em>.

That's about as far as you get before you can't read anymore, and you're shuffling the old, yellowed letter to the back of the pile of envelopes, moving onto the next one. The words are all beginning to blur, thick black lines faded with time and memories and the sorrow lurking at the corners of your eyes. The next address is indistinct, written in a hand that used to be more familiar than your own, and oh, you could stop; you should stop, but stopping is too much like running away, and you've already sprinted as far ahead as you can possibly get.

Your thumb wrests with the glue holding the letter closed, but before you get anywhere, James tangles his fingers in the chain of your dog tags, his breath hot against your neck. It's James because it has to be James, because no one else carries the scent of expensive cologne and hair product and engine grease on their skin, at least no one that you've ever met.

"What are you doing? Something fun? No, not fun, that's, is that paper, I didn't even know people wrote letters on paper anymore, that's _quaint_ is what it is." The blue glow of his arc reactor, his _heart_ – what James pretends is his heart because he likes to be the Tin Man, to make believe he isn't good and decent and too compassionate for his own sake – spills over your shoulder, eerie blue lighting the page.

That blue, that corpse-white blue light, it tinges everything James does.

The first time you read his dossier, it came complete with accounts from Gualmira and the very first Iron Man sighting. _His eyes glowed like a demon's_, one story read, _and he brought hellfire and brimstone down onto the Earth_, _God's hand, seeking justice_. You'd believed it, then; that this man was robotic, cybernetic, circuit boards driving an unfeeling machine.

Now you know different. You know who he is and how he tries so hard to shine, like he thinks someone can take his accomplishments away from him if he doesn't prove they are _his_. The past is a devil that James keeps at bay with a steady influx of bourbon and girls and the cool sheen of metal beneath his fingers, sad singers wailing over the speakers in his workshop. The future is a great wide nothing, more inventions, more creation, and more often than not you can see him wondering if it's even worth it.

He won't cop to any of that if pressed, though. You recognize battle scars, and you think it's strange how James feels unworthy of the ones that line his skin, like the fights he's been through are somehow less legitimate than those of the rest of the team. He hides it well, trades stories about this wound or that burn or that broken whatever with Dak and tales of torture how-to's with Camille, but when it comes to everything he's suffered on the inside he ducks his head like he's inferior. Like his pain isn't worth mentioning.

You worked up the nerve to ask him about it once, awkwardly stumbling over the syllables, and James just stared at you.

_What have I been through, exactly?_

You meant to say parents that weren't there for him, an inability to make friends, love that didn't last, and that's not even counting all the slights and insults and near-death experiences anyone with an internet browser can see, but all the words died on your tongue, tasting vaguely of ash. Because the summation, there, was _the same things I have_.

James doesn't like comparisons, is incomparable, really, so you kept quiet.

"Seriously," he barrels on, "I know you're about eight billion years old, but I need to get you a tablet or a laptop or a netbook, you'll like netbooks, they're adorable and small and they fit right in the palm of your hand. Like teacup dogs, except better because there's no drool."

You can't keep up with half the things he says- _what on earth_ is a teacup dog- but the sound of his voice fills the silence and chases away all your uncertainties. "James-"

"Okay, hey, nonono, stop with the Labrador eyes, I didn't mean to imply you're older than brontosaurus, brontosauri? Jarvis, what's-"

"Brontosauri, sir, however-"

"Cool see, I was right," he babbles, cutting his AI off, and there is little more that he enjoys than being right. He casts those giant, gorgeous peepers of his your way and the way he beams makes your insides feel squishy. "I'm usually right, I'm always right, hey, no, okay, I'm right at least ninety seven percent of the time-"

You talk over his small triumph, ruderuderude, but that's the only way to get a word in edgewise with James; the man appreciates rude, so. "Here to fetch me?"

Sitting through another charity dinner and listening to some stuffy suit deliver a panegyric about how you're the savior, back from the dead, is completely uninteresting to you, but you know that's why he's here. James drags you from obligation to obligation, philanthropic event to political rally to speech upon speech about what a _boon_ you are for _America_, which you can't really wrap your head around. Once upon a time, yes, you were weak, and you wanted to be strong, to be a shield for your country. You wanted to fight for honor and glory, like either of those things had any real place in war.

But that was the lie that so many young men told themselves, when you were alive, and they didn't know, they really didn't (the stomp of boots against cobble and the way blood looks when it overwhelms a street, shrapnel and punctured lungs, gold fillings in a dead man's pocket, gun powder on your tongue and you, big and strong but still insignificant in the long run. No, there is not anything glorious in your memories), and neither did you. You wanted to serve so very desperately, but you didn't know what it would be like, and now you do and mostly wish you could take it all back.

It's impossible, of course. No one can go backwards, not ever, not even a _hero_.

That's what they call you at all these events, like you're some kind of superman. If only they knew how you really felt. Sure, if it came down to it, you'd join the army all over again, because sitting idle has never been your thing, but there are moments you would change, moments you would fix. Sacrifices you maybe would not have made, and then the word _hero_ would not be pinned to your chest with all your multicolored ribbons for honor and valor and magnificence.

James is different, James hates regret, and he wears his heroism like a blade, piercing flesh and catching the luster and making you wonder if revenge tastes sweeter than you once thought honor would.

"How ever did you know?" He asks, his attention already fleeing to schematics in his head, and you have to do something to bring him back, to ground him.

"Your cologne. Whenever you smell like a garden, it means we have ladies to charm."

James bristles immediately, snapping into the present. "I am a man, the manliest of man, and my cologne not smell like _flowers_, god, Kendall."

He straightens, so you can see that he's all dolled up, ready for a night on the town. He looks just like he should, straight from the good old boys' book of what a patriot should be. What is it all the magazines say? That James Diamond likes big guns and Southern whiskey, and he never ever ever tries to serve anyone but himself. It's not true, you know, but the paparazzi never seems to learn.

Which isn't exactly surprising. You spend a lot of time reading. The New York Times, books, magazines, but also other things. Blogs. Comment sections on blogs. You've been fully educated on all the ignorant hate that spews from people's mouths, and the detestable rebukes from those who should know better. You've never understood how a person who preaches tolerance can go from high and mighty to ignominious dick in five seconds flat, but it happens, everywhere, from the cradle to the grave. The media's like that; saluting Iron Man and denigrating James Diamond all in the same breath.

"Magnolias, I think," you amend, sniffing the air pointedly.

James bristles and says, "Well then, _Captain America_," and he only does that when he's irritated, equating your title – respect that you've earned – to a bad word, the insouciant curve of his lips completely at odds with the prickle-edge of his voice. "You're not feeling the gala, I can tell, I'm intuitive that way. What do you want to do instead? The Merry Men and Lady Fair are doing movie night."

"Pass." Movie night is always loud and raucous and completely incongruous with what you're trying to do here, reading letters from dead friends, sent during your last tour overseas, before you…uh, took a really long nap.

You can never quite manage to call it dying, because it didn't feel much like death. There was water, crushing, squeezing the air from your lungs, a gasp and then the dark. It was terrifying, and then it was over. A blink, and you were awake in a whole new world.

"But Kendall, its movie night. They're watching John Carter."

You perk up. "I read that book."

"The movie's better," James says dismissively, flapping one hand in the air while simultaneously appearing more interested in the tiny white screen of his cell phone than in you. He is absorbed by his email or his social networking account or some kind of stupid game. "It's got Taylor Kitsch as an alien gladiator sex slave named Virginia."

You try not to let his lack of eye contact irritate you, because this is what you've learned about the twenty first century; life is sterile now. Families are not families, and everyone lives for themselves. You don't blame James for that, or anyone else, but you think that somewhere in translation between the forties and the contemporary world, a spark of vitality got lost. You couldn't pin it down or name it, but you know it's missing. You know that all this technology that connects people only serves to make them lonelier.

"What?"

"You heard me," James replies archly, still fascinated by his phone, eyes skating across the screen. "Come on, come on, let's have some fun."

"I'm not really in the mood for fun," you tell him, glancing pointedly at the letters.

"Gee willikers," James mocks, the stillness of his fingers the only sign that he's back to focusing on you. "Color me shocked. Remind me to get you acquainted with the concept of letting loose sometime. I'll take you to Disneyland. We'll do a photo op, you and Mickey Mouse, American heroes. What are you even doing, anyway, with this whole pile of dead trees, which, hi, that's another reason you're getting a tablet. If anyone should lead by example, go green, it should be Captain Conscientiousness – hey, does that say Jo Taylor?"

He snatches the letter from the bottom of the pile, Jo's signature feathered with age.

You sigh. "James. Give it back."

"No, dude, wasn't she your old girlfriend, I mean, aside from the guy, the, you know, that guy, Beck. Oh, wow, this is some hot stuff, this is really…" James switches tack quick, trying to palliate what he's just said, glossing over the sharp crackle of jealousy that still lives in his eyes.

That has ever since finding out your first time together wasn't _your_ first time, not by a long shot.

"Put it down," you insist, but you don't make any move to take it from him. If you have it in your hands, you might be forced to read it, and you've already decided that it's too hard.

You're stuck in time, can't go back, but too scared to go forward. Sometimes you think that James gets that, because he's more than a little guilty of trying to make days stand still.

No beginning, no end, just living steadfast in the present.

He tucks the yellowed piece of paper back where he got it and wends his hand through your dog tags a second time. "I didn't know people were so filthy in the forties."

Refusing to rise to the bait is easy. Jo wouldn't ever write anything untoward, and besides, the letter in question is from when you were off on a mission. The army's postal service was notoriously unreliable back then, and you ended up seeing her again before the thing ever landed in your hands. Everything she's put to paper, she eventually told you out loud.

You give James your best stern face, and all that does is make him grin, pulling you from your desk chair by the chain around your neck. He kisses you, hardwet_possessive_, less an apology and more a brand.

With the (ridiculous, overwhelming, extraordinary) amount of coffee James drinks, you always figured that his lips would taste bitter, like the grinds left on the bottom of the cup. Instead his mouth is raw sugar, melting against your tongue. You could push James away, teach him a lesson about personal property and touching things that aren't his and driving him away completely for the night, but you're a pretty firm believer in at least attempting reform before the whole shoot-'em-dead routine. You give as good as you get, tongue and teeth and the hot press of your body.

The first time this happened left you shell-shocked and uncertain, but now this is the part you like best about the future, how there are surprises you can't see coming yet, so many potentially wonderful things lurking around every corner. You still have lonely days, dark nights and empty moments, where you wonder if there's any voice at all other than yours; yours which you loathe because you were taught to loathe it, because other people used to try to tamp you down whenever you attempted to rise up.

But you also get all these bright, shiny spots, starbursts in the future that you can feel even now, even if you're not sure that they're real. If James, and everything he offers you, is real.

It becomes a mantra in your head every time your lips touch, that it's worth it, it's worth it, it has to be worth it.

"Behave yourself," you reprimand, but you touch his face more tenderly than you mean to, giving yourself away.

Cheekily, he retorts, "Sir, yes, sir," and palms your ass. "I'm thinking we skip the gala _and_ movie night. We could stay right here. Play capture the flag, try some apple pie, make America proud-"

Ruderuderude, but you press your lips to his all the same, because it makes him giddy when you tell him to shut up, and you want to touch him, to mark him, to turn this night into something happy and beautiful and head-dizzyingly brilliant.

Separate, you trail the ice you were trapped in and James has a giant hole in his heart, literally.

Together, right here, he is whole, and you're all too content to let him thaw your bones.


End file.
